Free The Poser by Jacob Rubin

The sound of Max clearing his throat was grandly amplified. “Hello-OOOO—ANAEEEENNANENANA!”
    The feedback shrieked, leaving in its wake a series of gasps.
    â€œMy . . . my . . .” Max’s voice sounded meek, of all things, now that it commanded the hall. “My apologies. Perhaps I should have asked the microphone for a date before approaching it so rudely?” From the crease in his voice, I could tell he was smiling, but the crowd had disintegrated from a unified audience to factions of conversation.
    â€œIt is my great pleasure,” Max tried again, sucking in a deep breath, “to present to you Giovanni Bernini, the World’s Greatest Impression—AEENENEEEENENNE.” Groans and gasps and what you had to assume were cross expressions emanated from the dark. The heat of the spotlight was unbearable. My collar clamped around my throat, and I was feeling very embarrassed to occupy a stage in such a costume with so many strangers expecting me to do something. It seemed absurd that I, of all people, should stand in front of others as an example of what a person is.
    â€œThis goddamn . . .” His mutterings amplified, Max grappled with the stand, trying to rest the microphone in its perch without causing further disturbance. Once he had, he lifted up the stand and walked it to the edge of the stage. Sweat coating the sides of his face, he returned to center stage, smacking his hands. “My plain voice will do!” he declared from his spotlight, his baritone carrying without problem across the hall. I lowered my head again. Out of the dark came purposeful coughs. They disliked us now.
    â€œLadies and Gentlemen, without further ado, I present . . . GIOVANNI BERNINI, THE WORLD’S GREATEST IMPRESSIONIST!” Without looking up, I knew Maximilian was sweeping his arm toward me, folding his legs in an exaggerated curtsy. I was doing the same. This was supposed to be comical—the oddly matched pair bowing in unison—but there quivered only that tightrope of silence. I thought I heard a boo.
    â€œI know
I’ve
always distrusted performers who require volunteers. If I were down there among you, I would most certainly
not
volunteer myself. But! I
would
hope someone else had the guts, the temerity, the courage to step across this stage, to join us in this bath of light, so I, safe in the darkness, could see what all this nonsense was about!”
    A raggedy gust of coughs. Snickers.
    â€œOne brave soul,” Maximilian said again. His tone remained jocular. It was as if, since stepping onstage, we’d somehow exchanged moods. “Who will be brave enough to grace this stage, to make this night a memorable one for all of us?”
    â€œOkaaay, I’ll do it,” a voice shot out from the dark.
    â€œExcellent!” Maximilian was saying. “No one will be disappoint—” He managed to feign composure, to not suffer some baroque seizure, as I was sure I would, when recognizing the bewitching figure cutting a path through the tables. Who knows how white my face became, how taut my mouth, when I made out that shape in that kelly green dress excusing herself from between the backs of chairs.
    As soon as Lucy Starlight mounted the stage, a spotlight cocooned her, too. I was supposed to be firmly in my
wound
position, but I watched—gawked, more like—as this was my first real chance to study her. She ranged over to Max, the rim of their spotlights touching, feet away from me. Her shiny calves, her wriggling hips, the whole female affront she aspired to—where was it? Her thread?
    â€œWhat’s your name, sweetheart?” Max asked as she sidled next to him.
    â€œLucy.”
    â€œLucy what, dear?”
    â€œStarlight.”
    â€œAnd what do you do, Lucy Starlight?”
    â€œI’m a singer,” she said in a mock baritone.
    â€œAnd what do you sing about?”
    â€œHorrible