Intermission
There were many ways Elliot had envisioned spending his 40th birthday. Sitting with his fellow Les Miserables cast members at a TGIFriday’s on the ground floor of a Ramada Inn outside Milwaukee wasn’t one of them.
He’d pictured himself at Sardi’s perhaps, celebrating after a standing ovation for his Tony-winning performance in a new Mamet play. Instead, he was a gypsy, an ensemble member, one of Javert’s understudies – not even a principal.
“Schlemeel, schlemazel, Hasenfeffer Incorporated!” Cosette’s understudy and the new Fantine held each other up under a frayed, generic “Happy Birthday” banner, laughing as they tried to act out the Laverne & Shirley opening.
Elliot signaled to the server. "Another Heineken," he said. Damned if he'd stoop to drinking domestic. He propped his chin in his hand and fiddled with the empty bottle in front of him.
“Mind if I join you?” A tall woman with salt-and-cayenne hair had her hands full – literally – with a plate of frozen vanilla cake, a cup of coffee, a child’s knapsack, two sweaters, two Land’s End jackets and a shoulder bag.
“Please.” Elliot stood to help her. “Let me help you.”
Once seated, she extended her hand. “I’m Miranda, Ian’s mom.” Ian was the newly-cast Gavroche, the adorable, audience-pleasing street urchin.
“Elliot.”
“So I gathered.” She gestured with her fork towards the frozen sheet cake on a table near the banner. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks. Your son’s very talented.” They went through many Gavroches, thanks to puberty and changing voices. Few remained on the road for longer than six months. This kid was good, though. Perfect pitch.
“He’s ecstatic.” She looked over at her son who, at that moment, was ogling the teenage Cosette.
“Probably easier to be on tour when you’re 12,” Elliot said. “It must seem like a big adventure to him.”
“Absolutely. The tutor takes all the kids to the historical places in each city. When you go to San Antonio, he’ll get to see the Alamo, not just read about it.” She took a bite of cake. “And maybe he’ll get a more accurate historical perspective.”
“I haven’t done that in, like, a year,” Elliot said. “I used to go to all the touristy places, but I got tired of the… tourists.” He began scraping away at the Heineken label.
“How long have you been on tour?” Miranda asked.
“Just over two years.”
“How do you like it?”
He shrugged. “It’s okay.” Elliot stared across the room at a group of younger cast members, in their 20s, playing charades over a checkered tablecloth littered with Miller and Pabst bottles.
The server approached, a buxom blonde of about 32, Elliot guessed. “Last call,” she said. “Want anything?”
“Just that Heineken,” Elliot said. “Miranda?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” After the server left, she asked, “Why so blue?”
Elliot sighed. “I don’t have a retirement fund. I don’t own a house, a car – not even a plant. I have bruises on my legs from bumping into unfamiliar furniture in the middle of the night.”
“Sounds like freedom,” Miranda said. "Except for the bruises."
“This just isn’t what I imagined.” He sighed.
Miranda smiled. “Yeah, don’t we all say that?”
“I’m sorry,” Elliot said as he shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Miranda laughed. “You’re having a mid-life crisis, that’s all. Only it’s a bit skewed.” She finished her coffee. “You do realize you’re living the life most people dream about?”
“That’s only because they’ve never been on the road.”
“Come on. It can’t be that bad.”
“It’s not. I know I’m lucky. It’s just today – I mean, 40. It’s definitely too late to go to med school.” He laughed, but it came out too strongly and sputtered. The server returned with the beer and the bill.
“Would you really want to go to med school?”
Elliot pulled out his wallet and placed two $20 bills on the tray. “No. I hate blood. I hated science. But even more, I hate that it’s no longer an option.”
“Yeah,” she said softly.
A loud, flirtatious squeal emanated from the far side of the room, followed by peals of laughter. The new Fantine was flirting madly with some man Elliot had never seen. He noted with surprise that her coquettishness irritated him; she just seemed so… juvenile.
“You get to play every day,” Miranda said. “You don’t have to wear a suit.”
Elliot broke out in a grin. “I dare any Wall Street guy to go under stage lights in those wigs and costumes.”
Miranda laughed again – a woman’s laugh, not a girlish giggle.
“You get to see a lot of places,” Miranda said.
“It’s a tradeoff,” Elliot replied. “Reward for having a life that can be packed into two large Rubbermaid bins every week.”
“You get two?”
“Yeah, well, you know, I’m a grownup. Supposedly.” He paused. “Wow, that line doesn’t work after 40, does it? I mean, there’s no getting around it. I really am a grownup.”
Miranda tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “That was one of my first thoughts when I turned 40. I realized that I’m definitely not a teenager any more.” They both laughed.
“You don’t look 40.” Elliot lied out of habit.
“Oh, please. I’m 45. There comes a time when you just say ‘this is who I am.’” She shrugged. Elliot tried to pinpoint what was so appealing about her. A lack of pretense, he decided. She looked comfortable in her body, comfortable with herself. He envied that.
“So where’s home?” Miranda asked.
“Wherever the bins are. I sublet my place in New York, but I think the guy who’s living there has squatters’ rights by now.”
Fantine and the object of her flirtation passed by on their way, undoubtedly, to a wild night.
“See that guy?” Elliot pointed to Fantine’s conquest. Miranda nodded. “I feel like I’m still his age.”
“I’ll always feel 25,” she said.
“I’m beginning to understand this whole ‘youth is wasted on the young’ thing.”
“I know!” Miranda’s face lit up. “If only I knew then what I know now…”
“I’m not an emerging actor any more. I’m not a young actor,” he said. “‘Young’ will never again be used to describe me, except maybe by my mother.”
Miranda paused with her fork in mid-air. “Here’s the thing.” She finished off her cake. “You’re starting Act II.”
“Of my life?”
“Exactly.”
“Can’t I be, I don't know... in intermission?”
“Okay,” Miranda said with mock seriousness. “That could work.” Then a full grin: “The point is, Elliot, you can’t have Act II without all the setup that comes from Act I.”
The lights in the unused areas of the restaurants flickered, off-on-off, and then went dark.
“It’s getting late. I should get Ian to bed.” Miranda stood up. “It’s been a pleasure talking with you.”
“Likewise.” Elliot stood up and helped her gather the sweaters and jackets. “Thank you. I feel so stupid, just venting – I don’t even know you.”
“No worries.”
“Well, thanks anyway.” He watched her walk across the room. “See you tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.” She smiled. “And Elliot – don’t stay too long in intermission. All the good stuff happens in Act II.”