Broadway, New York’s world-renowned theater district that shared its name with one of New York’s major thoroughfares, held a special lure for Franklin as a child. At night the colored lights, the marquees, and the larger-than-life images mesmerized him as they hinted at the magic within its grand theaters. But in the harsh light of day, the evening sparkle gave way to the reality that human hands wrought the razzle-dazzle of all the theaters; except the Haberman, especially at Christmastime. Even in broad daylight, the Beaux-Arts theater glittered like a jewel box.
His cab snaked its way uptown and turned off 8th Avenue and onto 46th Street. He hadn’t been to the Haberman in a few years. Would it still look the same? Would he recognize it at all? He took in the view. After all that time, 46th Street felt the same, but it looked different.
“Which side you want to get out on?” the cab driver asked.
“The right. Here’s good,” Franklin said and pulled a move rarely executed by New Yorkers: he stepped out of his cab—lugging his bankers box—on the side of the street opposite his destination. The view of the Haberman from across the street was better than he imagined.
Atop the awning that covered the theater’s entrance, rested a whimsical tableau that rivaled the most sophisticated department store windows. In it, a whimsical gathering of Santa, Mrs. Claus, gingerbread men, a couple of reindeer, and fantastic toys to shame the most prolific toymaker, skated on a frozen lake. Above it all, was a gigantic red ribbon with the words Christmas Is in twinkling gold lights.
As he approached the theater, the smell of fresh cut pine trees and peppermint filled his lungs. The producers piped in the scents in the hopes of sending a subliminal message to theater patrons that yes, the Haberman Theatre was Santa’s official home away from home for the Christmas season.
The “Opening Friday” banner hanging underneath the awning drew Franklin and the other patrons in. He queued up at the Will Call window, claimed his tickets, and followed the stream of people entering the theater for the preview performance.
• • •
With a 10:30 a.m. arrival for an eleven o’clock curtain, Franklin had a little time to review the agency’s books before his meeting with Sandy. He found a seat in a quiet corner in one of the theater’s lounges and read through old records written in his father’s hand.
In comparing the numbers of actors his father represented five years ago to today and their income, Franklin discovered the once vibrant agency was on life support. That the agency had suffered such a steep decline and his father never mentioned it, disturbed Franklin.
And the news didn’t get any better.
When Sandy mentioned that two of their clients were cast in the show, for some reason she failed to mention that Helen Trimble, Bill Willis, and Judy McPhee were the agency’s last three clients. Judy McPhee. The name sounded vaguely familiar to Franklin, but he couldn’t place it.
He took out his phone and crunched more numbers. With a three-client roster, the agency wasn’t in great shape; but it would survive. By January 15th of the following year, all the commissions would be paid and if Franklin tightened his belt, he would be out of arrears with his co-op and avoid conflicts with their lawyers.
Just to be sure, he worked the numbers a little further. With two working clients, he’d be cutting it way too close. Fewer than that, he and the agency would be in trouble. “Three clients, not so bad,” he said to himself. “Two working clients, hello no-frills zone. One client, I’m done.”
What disturbed him even more was that he couldn’t be sure of the agency’s future. He had no experience as a talent agent, and wasn’t sure he could even do it. But if he wanted to keep his apartment, he had to make it work. Suddenly, The Albright Agency took on great value. Franklin loaded the books back into the box and headed to the theater’s concession stand.
From fancy natural mineral water, to sodas, to espresso drinks, to hard liquor, honey-roasted nuts, nachos, and everything in between, the Haberman concession stands were a veritable smorgasbord. Franklin hopped in line.
The first movie Rudy took Franklin to see in a theater was Home Alone. While the movie was one of his all-time favorites, the most memorable part of the experience was the trip to the concession stand where father and son chose Cokes and a bucket of popcorn bigger than both their heads. The Lion King was the first Broadway show he experienced with his father. And once again the two decided on the tub of popcorn when the concessioner asked—
“What’s it going to be today?”
Franklin was lost in his memories when the cashier repeated his question a second time. “What’s it going to be today?”
He hesitated for a moment. With eggs Benedict in his stomach, there was no room for a barrel of popcorn. Besides, it probably wouldn’t make a good impression on Sandy.
“The espresso. I’ll have a double espresso,” he said. “Can you throw some mocha in there, too?”
“Sure,” the cashier said while pulling the espresso shots.
Based on the numbers, Franklin would have to cut overhead wherever he could, with the biggest savings coming from eliminating staff. Now he was having conflicting thoughts about Sandy. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be too likable. That’d make letting her go all the more difficult.
The overhead lights flashed, signaling that the show would begin shortly. Franklin checked his seat assignment, paid the cashier, and tucked everything back into his coat pocket.
Somewhere between setting the drink on top of his bankers box and turning around to head to his seat, Franklin tripped over his feet, lost his balance, and tumbled into the woman behind him in line. He managed to keep control of the box, but the double café mocha splashed all over the front of the woman’s white trench coat. The resulting splatter very much resembled the silhouette of a reindeer head with a set of eight-point antlers.
The woman was mortified, and so was Franklin.
“SERIOUSLY?!” the woman said at the top of her lungs.
“I’m so sorry! I’m really sorry,” Franklin said, scrambling to scoop up the cup and lid from the ground. Somebody handed him a handful of paper napkins. He dabbed at the coffee on the woman’s coat.
“What are you doing?!” she said, outraged that a stranger would touch her torso even under those circumstances. Tears welled in her eyes.
Franklin realized his double faux pas. He wanted to be anyplace but where he stood. “Look, I’m running late. I’ve got someplace to be and someone to meet,” he said. He placed the napkins in her hands and left her for his meeting with Sandy as fast as he could. “I’m sorry! I really am.”
• • •
The house of the Haberman Theatre boasted a shimmering crystal chandelier, ceiling murals, columns, and statuary; all the trappings of a 1920s movie cathedral. A butt sat in every seat along Franklin’s row, except for two seats near the middle. He surmised one was for himself, and the other for Sandy Perez. Still rattled by the espresso debacle, but relieved to be there before the start of the show, Franklin worked his way past the seated patrons. With his bankers box.
“Excuse me. Coming through,” Franklin said. “Pardon me. Thank you. Lovely scarf. Did someone make that for you? Excuse me. Thanks.” He took his seat. Sandy Perez was due to arrive any minute.
He looked over his shoulder and saw the woman from the concession stand walking down the aisle with her coat folded over her arm. He scrunched down in his chair so as not to be seen and struck up a conversation with the person seated next to him.
The woman with the coat worked her way down his row, nimbly squeezing past patrons and saying, “excuse me,” along the way. Franklin recognized her voice.
In the few minutes before opening curtain, he didn’t have time to offer a proper apology, much less a proper introduction. Perhaps he could say how sorry he was again, as a stranger, to take the edge off her anger before she realized who he was.
He turned to her and said, “Hi. Mind if I join you?”
She looked at him askance. “Yes, I’m waiting for someone.”
“Could I wait till he arrives?”
“No,” the woman said, growing more impatient. “I really need you to leave.”
“But I’d like to talk to you for just a minute,” Franklin said.
“Yeah, that’s not happening.” She heaved a heavy sigh and then turned. “I’m leaving.”
“What about your friend?” Franklin asked.
“You can explain to him why I left. Enjoy the show,” she said and worked her way back to the aisle.
To Franklin’s disappointment, she walked up the aisle, pulled out her phone, and exited the theater. He felt like a jerk for what happened. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out and read a new text message —
Unable to make it. Personal emergency.
See you at the office afterwards?
Franklin felt even worse, but he would straighten it all out later. He messaged back —
I understand. See you then.
The orchestra played a medley of well-known Christmas standards. The house lights dimmed. The audience members reined in their excitement, ready to behold the splendor of Christmas Is. Franklin was eager to see the talents of two of his clients performing as Santa and Mrs. Claus.
The Austrian curtain rose to reveal a forest of snow-covered trees. A chorus line of tall female dancers, dressed in sparkling white leotards with enormous translucent snowflakes invisibly strapped to their bodies, flitted across the stage creating geometric patterns. Other dancers, dressed in Currier & Ives costumes, cavorted among the snowflakes. Everyone celebrated the fullness of winter.
A tantalizing gingerbread house rolled onto stage right. A couple of snowmen knocked on the peppermint door and sang their request for its residents to come out and join the fun.
Santa and Mrs. Claus exited the gingerbread house and entered arm in arm to thunderous applause. The two cooed the lyrics to “Winter Wonderland” as they strolled among the snowflakes and Currier & Ives couples.
The entire stage flowed and ebbed to the music. Gigantic snow-covered mechanical trees began to sway to the music and move across the stage.
Then it happened.
The sickening thud. Followed by the sound of grinding metal. Helen Trimble—Mrs. Claus—squealed, and disappeared from sight.
An audible gasp rose from the audience.
“Are you freaking kidding me?!” Franklin yelled at no one in particular. He stood on his seat to get a better view.
There, centerstage, for all the world to see—
Mrs. Claus lay flat on her back while her red skirt, red and white striped leggings, and holly-accented shoes stuck out from under the massive, gingerbread house that now obscured the upper half of her body from the audience. Everyone on stage froze with terror as they stared at the visible half of Mrs. Claus. The strains of “Winter Wonderland” faded away. In the silence, Santa ran off the stage shrieking in a voice much higher than anyone would assume possible for a man of his stature.
Mrs. Claus’s slightly muffled voice came from under the house. “Hello? I’m all right … but could someone call an ambulance? Please.”
The curtain slowly came down on both the stage and Franklin’s livelihood.
Still with his bankers box, Franklin climbed past seated patrons in his row and ran for the stage. So many thoughts raced through his mind. One of which was, I am living The Wizard of Oz. The scene on the stage oddly resembled Dorothy Gale’s unannounced arrival in the land over the rainbow. Franklin would have sold all the pizza in New York to swap lives with that silly girl from Kansas in that moment. She had ruby slippers, Glenda the Good Witch of the North, a scarecrow, a man made of tin, and a cowardly lion. She had tons of help. Now he had only one commissionable client in the show, months of back due monthly maintenance fees, no job, and there was no Glenda in sight. He hated that movie. Forget Dorothy.
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