show people smile when they feel low

show people smile when they feel low

fiction
edward w pritchard

Seven thousand times I carried Darcina's battered tuba and case up three flights of steps to the back of a smoggy greyhound bus or if we were traveling the 1970's Vaudeville revival circuit in the East an Amtrac sleeper car with the Heater on the blink and blankets as thin as a road manager's loyalty to a backup singer in the troupe who has permanently lost her voice.

While Darcina and her pretty sister Irene gave nine shows a week across the theater's of small-town America for 28 years I was the arranger and road Manager for their duo. Bouncer and dietitian I double quick-ed over to the Woolworth's in the rain twenty minutes before the 8PM show to get pancake-cover makeup the second time Irene's first Husband Ronnie gave her a black eye in upper New York State and got the permanent lower back cramps from keeping  my arms around Darcina while she slept on the night train from Bryan, Ohio to Chicago the night Mr. Porter told her She was getting too old for lead billing anymore.

Darcina and I never married and I never had my name on the program but for 28 years I never had to buy a ticket to watch good Vaudeville in America and in time I learned the words to all the songs and heard every dirty joke about girl's in the Band there was to tell.

One day though through a fog someone dis-interested tells you somewhat kindly that Vaudeville is dead and gone, never was really and your way of a life has become an anachronism or if they are too polite to use that big word a bit of a hindrance and you hang on for a while with the troupe still carrying the old tuba but you don't sit with the troupe anymore in the dining car on the Amtrac to Chicago until one day Mr. Porter tells you that you will need a regular priced ticket if you want to watch the act from tonight on forward.