Clearly, I don't understand the concept of "ficlet." Had to cut into three parts for length. It doesn't really adhere to canon. So shoot me...
The party was a bit different than Chris and JC were used to. Theater parties seemed to be a bit less sleazy than the music-industry parties they’d been to way too many of, and a bit less openly mercenary than the Hollywood parties Lance always seemed to be heading off to. But here at some random castmember’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen after catching Joey in Rent—again—it was kind of like the grown-up version of a high school drama club party. It was very touchy-feely, but not necessarily in a sexual way. There was just a comfortable vibe, along with a healthy “serious artist” snootiness that floated over the room. The best thing about it was that they were being ignored. And not in the studious “I’m ignoring you—until I pounce on you to see what you can do for me” kind of way. This was genuine, I-don’t-know-who-you-are ignoring. It was kinda refreshing.
Chris sat on the ratty, old sofa next to JC, close enough in the crowded room to feel JC’s thigh shake with laughter as he talked with some guy on the other side of him. Miraculously, in the midst of all the theater folk, JC had found someone as loopy over music as he was, and they were speaking in strange half-sentences about the interconnectedness of Thelonius Monk and quantum physics. Chris was a musician, too, but he wasn’t that kind of musician. Turned out the guy, Jason, was a composer whose wife was a theater director. The wife, Rose, was cute, funny and bubbly and expressive as she related a story to a woman next to her on the sofa perpendicular to where Chris sat.
Chris soon grew bored with JC and Jason’s two-part riffing on string theory and J.S. Bach, and let his attention wander around the room. Theater types didn’t dress as provocatively as your standard music-party hangers-on, but they seemed to use their arms a lot more when they spoke. It was pretty entertaining to watch, even if one had no idea what the thread of the conversation was. He caught Joey’s eye across the room, as exuberant and delighted as possible, fitting in perfectly with the crowd. They smiled at each other and Joey went back to relating some story to the woman he was chatting with, barely interrupting the massive sweeping of his arms and loopy facial expressions.
Something closer faintly tugged at Chris’s attention. Rose was clearly in the depths of a good story she’d practiced telling many times. As Chris tuned in, he could understand why she was a fast-rising star on the Broadway scene (or so he’d overheard someone say). The woman had a way with a story. He tuned in more attentively to catch up.
“But, see, the thing is, it was a really good opera! And I hate opera! So I couldn’t just leave in the second intermission. What’s a little throat swelling shut when there’s great art to be appreciated? Finally, the opera ends, and I decide to stop by the nurse’s office at Julliard, having no idea what’s wrong. Basically, I walked in and they started yelling at me for not going to the emergency room right away. I tried to explain--you’d think the health services at Julliard would understand about not missing out on great opera, but nooooo. They were all, ‘la, la, anaphylactic shock, la, la, potentially fatal allergic reaction, la, la, ambulance, etcetera.’”
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Never done this before, please be gentle...
Date: 2004-03-02 11:32 pm (UTC)The party was a bit different than Chris and JC were used to. Theater parties seemed to be a bit less sleazy than the music-industry parties they’d been to way too many of, and a bit less openly mercenary than the Hollywood parties Lance always seemed to be heading off to. But here at some random castmember’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen after catching Joey in Rent—again—it was kind of like the grown-up version of a high school drama club party. It was very touchy-feely, but not necessarily in a sexual way. There was just a comfortable vibe, along with a healthy “serious artist” snootiness that floated over the room. The best thing about it was that they were being ignored. And not in the studious “I’m ignoring you—until I pounce on you to see what you can do for me” kind of way. This was genuine, I-don’t-know-who-you-are ignoring. It was kinda refreshing.
Chris sat on the ratty, old sofa next to JC, close enough in the crowded room to feel JC’s thigh shake with laughter as he talked with some guy on the other side of him. Miraculously, in the midst of all the theater folk, JC had found someone as loopy over music as he was, and they were speaking in strange half-sentences about the interconnectedness of Thelonius Monk and quantum physics. Chris was a musician, too, but he wasn’t that kind of musician. Turned out the guy, Jason, was a composer whose wife was a theater director. The wife, Rose, was cute, funny and bubbly and expressive as she related a story to a woman next to her on the sofa perpendicular to where Chris sat.
Chris soon grew bored with JC and Jason’s two-part riffing on string theory and J.S. Bach, and let his attention wander around the room. Theater types didn’t dress as provocatively as your standard music-party hangers-on, but they seemed to use their arms a lot more when they spoke. It was pretty entertaining to watch, even if one had no idea what the thread of the conversation was. He caught Joey’s eye across the room, as exuberant and delighted as possible, fitting in perfectly with the crowd. They smiled at each other and Joey went back to relating some story to the woman he was chatting with, barely interrupting the massive sweeping of his arms and loopy facial expressions.
Something closer faintly tugged at Chris’s attention. Rose was clearly in the depths of a good story she’d practiced telling many times. As Chris tuned in, he could understand why she was a fast-rising star on the Broadway scene (or so he’d overheard someone say). The woman had a way with a story. He tuned in more attentively to catch up.
“But, see, the thing is, it was a really good opera! And I hate opera! So I couldn’t just leave in the second intermission. What’s a little throat swelling shut when there’s great art to be appreciated? Finally, the opera ends, and I decide to stop by the nurse’s office at Julliard, having no idea what’s wrong. Basically, I walked in and they started yelling at me for not going to the emergency room right away. I tried to explain--you’d think the health services at Julliard would understand about not missing out on great opera, but nooooo. They were all, ‘la, la, anaphylactic shock, la, la, potentially fatal allergic reaction, la, la, ambulance, etcetera.’”