Free Now I See You by Nicole C. Kear

take money to my grave?”) I was getting by well enough that I could perform for free.
    I wiped sweat from above my lip and pressed on the outer corners of my eyes to make sure the fake lashes there were still securely adhered. Then I ran through the burlesque choreography in my mind, readying to kick the top off the cake with a silver sequined heel. Once the dance was done and the guy in the gorilla suit carried me offstage, I’d have just one more costume change and a final scene to get through before opening night was over. So far, so good. But, as they say, it ain’t over til the fat lady sings. Or, in my case, til the blind lady maims herself.
    I was worried, for good reason, about the blackouts. The play was a madcap farce from the 1960s, and what it lacked in substance, it made up for in costume design. With every new scene, I had a new costume and coiffure. This meant lots of sprinting across the dark, crowded backstage area to my dressing room and back onstage again, which is an equation for disaster when you lack both peripheral and nighttime vision. But I told myself that with enough preparation, I could handle it. I reported to the theater early every night, before the rest of the cast arrived, and practiced each transition until I could do them, literally, with my eyes closed.
    Now it was opening night and I’d made it through nearly the whole performance without a hitch—the burlesque dance included. No trouble popping the cake top, no wardrobe malfunctions during the vigorous shimmy-and-shake that followed, no late entrance of the guy in the gorilla suit.
    Almost there, I thought as I stepped out of the bikini and yanked on an organza gown for the final scene.
    I darted out of the dressing room, pulling up the zipper on the gown as I ran. Squeezed past the prop table, felt my way around the birthday cake. A few more steps and I’d be stage right, just in time for my cue.
    Except that suddenly, instead of moving forward, I was falling down. I’d crashed into something massive and heavy, just at the level of my knees, and though I was blocked from the knees down, I’d been moving with so much momentum, the rest of me went flying forward until my throat encountered what felt like a crowbar. I recoiled, gagging.
    My first thought was that I’d been attacked á la Nancy Kerrigan by some ruthless rival who’d been hiding in the dark with a baseball bat. But as I pulled myself back up to standing, groping for support in the darkness, I realized that it hadn’t been a person who attacked me, but a mobility scooter. Specifically, the mobility scooter used by the male lead in the first act to get a huge laugh which, according to my calculations, was supposed to be parked way the hell over in the wings stage left by now.
    What kind of an asshole can’t be bothered to stow his props in their assigned location? I thought. I’d like to give him a sharp blow to the windpipe. See how he likes it.
    Not that it mattered now. What mattered now was whether I was bleeding. I shot my hand to my throat. Though throbbing, it felt intact. Then I heard my cue. Shaking, I minced my way to the stage entrance and, taking a deep breath, strode onstage.
    “La—”
    The word wouldn’t come out. It felt as though there was something lodged in my throat, interfering with the production of sound. I cleared my throat loudly. The audience waited. My castmates waited. The pregnant pause stretched on, past its due date, but my windpipe still felt blocked and all I could do was clear my throat again. Now my fellow actors were looking worried, and the audience shifted in their seats.
    Having learned at circus school that it takes repeating something three times to make it funny, I cleared my throat again, extravagantly, as if this was a fully intentional comedic sequence. The audience tittered, and their laugh gave me the confidence to try my vocal cords again.
    “Lance Weatherwax!” I exclaimed. “Whatever in the world are you doing