Cheryl, a Federal government secretary, spends many of her lunch hours traveling back and forth between her office and a small theatre where her sister Rosie, an aspiring dancer, is rehearsing an experimental play. Is Cheryl's role as her sister's mentor satisfying enough, or does she want something more?
The alarm rang at six a.m., driving into oblivion the wispy, dancing forms of Cheryl’s dreams. She turned over with a sigh, half expecting the dream images to sharpen instead of disintegrate, to draw strength from the growing light, to prevail over the alarm. Instead, the twenty-four-year-old secretary felt herself being dragged inexorably toward the realities of the coming day. What’s the point of getting up at all, she protested inwardly, if you don’t have some waking vision to pursue? One day I’ll use that argument on the folks, as an excuse to stay in bed all day. Then I’ll watch as they call in the men in white coats.
Before Cheryl could roll over a second time, her mother came in to rouse her with some pointed remarks about the nature of real life. The jarring discussion continued at the breakfast table, with Mom grumbling: “Just once I’d like to get away with making the same breakfast for every member of this family!” But there were too many differences at work to permit that. Dad was crabbing about the bland wheat germ he was forced to endure because of his cholesterol; at the other end of the scale was Rosie, a lithe twenty-year-old who felt justified in demanding pancakes, loaded with carbohydrates, to propel her through today’s arduous dance rehearsal.
Tired and sour as she felt, Cheryl couldn’t deny a shimmer of excitement at the prospect of this rehearsal. She was honestly proud that her sister was starring in a production being produced by the brave but struggling Wheaton Stage of suburban Maryland. Small-time though it was, it had promise. Rosie’s talents were being displayed to advantage as the “other woman” in an experimental revue about relationships, entitled Triangle. Despite the obscure venue, Cheryl was reasonably certain that Rosie’s dramatic skills and dancing would be observed one day by someone connected to the big-time … perhaps even the bright lights of New York City.
It was up to Cheryl to pound the theme, whenever she could rise above sarcasm, that this ordinary family must make concessions to such extraordinary possibilities. The prospective star would sit coolly through the discussion, tucking away her pancakes, smugly aware that she was special if only because she lacked the mundane skills an average woman needed to survive on her own in workaday Washington, DC.
At other times, like today, a contrary mood gripped Cheryl. “Do you suppose I could have one of those pancakes,” she asked her mother, “to get me through my heavy typing schedule today? Considering that I probably won’t have time for lunch?” A look from Mom reminded her that a sedentary office worker, who looked to be a few pounds overweight, didn’t require such an indulgence. Cheryl accepted a bowl of wheat germ instead, but in a fit of defiance, poured sugar on top of it.
They were a two-car family … which was barely adequate, since there were four adults. Each morning the cars set off in opposite directions. Mom drove Rosie uptown to her rehearsal, while Dad drove himself and Cheryl downtown to their posts in the government bureaucracy. Today, as every day, her father attempted an ice-breaker during drive-time: “Well, what’s on the agenda at WED today?”
Cheryl, still feeling sour, replied, “Come on, Dad. Surely you wouldn’t want me to reveal the government secrets I have access to. Isn’t secrecy what keeps the State Department afloat?”
“I didn’t know you were involved in anything classified these days.”
“Are you kidding?” Cheryl shot back. “You think all I do is type operating budgets for the Weapons Evaluation Division? That’s true enough, but I have the secret knowledge that keeps the operation going. Nobody else in that office knows how to set up spreadsheets on the computer. You think it’s easy getting those huge numbers to fall into neat columns and add up?”
Her father opened his mouth, no doubt to impart the usual protest that he hadn’t meant to denigrate her job, but Cheryl wasn’t in the mood to hear it. “Listen, if I were to quit today, I don’t know what you administrators in the main building would do without your nifty charts. And if you didn’t have those numbers always at hand to feed to the negotiators, what would they bargain with? That might be the end of any hopes for world peace in our time!”
Dad was used to her early morning crabbiness, but one remark apparently set off an alarm. “Now, you listen to me,” he remonstrated as they approached the vast State Department building. “Don’t even think of quitting your job on some stupid impulse. It might not be a bed of roses, but it’s a job.”
“Rest assured, I’ll never quit … until I’m ready to move up and take your job.”
As her father prepared to dump her at the entrance, she felt a pang of contrition. “Come on, Dad. You should know when I’m joking. I’m not really a mean person. I’m just frustrated.” But they parted unceremoniously, and he drove into the underground garage reserved for administrators.
Cheryl had to wait for a shuttle bus to carry her across the Potomac River to the Departmental adjunct in the Virginia suburb of Rosslyn. She arrived at her desk sweltering and frayed from the August heat, having crossed two jurisdictional lines to get there. A pile of typing chores had materialized since yesterday … placed on her chair, to her annoyance. The work itself scarcely engaged her. She had indeed mastered the tricks of her computer, a form of wizardry in which she took grim pride. This pile would get her through the morning.
As a diversion, she propped up on her typing stand, alongside her work, the program for Triangle. She invested more thought in that document than in the figures she was tabbing into columns. While reflecting on the characters in the play, she managed to ignore her bosses … the desk soldiers who dreamed up such monstrous numbers, which she presumed were requests for military funding. She didn’t look up when they strolled out of their offices and made for the coffee machine opposite her desk. It was not her job to cultivate her bosses, or even to understand what she was working on.
True, one of those bosses seemed to be cultivating her. But the idea that a romance could blossom here, during these eight hours of regimented time, seemed too farfetched to contemplate. This admirer made a habit of approaching her, coffee cup in hand, and studying her typing maneuvers. He was no dreamboat, but he did have two qualities that seemed humanizing … his flirtatiousness, and a slight paunch, which were unlike the soldierly perfection of her other bosses. While hardly the man who would rescue her from this life, he had proven himself an ally.
His approach today was relatively bold. He reached over her shoulder and picked up the program, brushing his arm against hers. This prompted her to joke: “No touching in the office, Dick. That could be construe d as sexual harassment.”
“So, this is your sister’s show? Ready to open next week?” He studied the program with interest.
“Don’t call it a show as if it were some kind of burlesque. It’s an experimental piece by the Wheaton Stage.” Cheryl smiled at him and continued, “If you’re serious about wanting to escort me to the opening, I must first educate you in the recognition of true art.”
He appeared to be examining the two girls in leotards, posed on either side of a young man with a befuddled look. “The girl on the left is your sister. I can see the family resemblance.”
“Thank you,” Cheryl said with a chortle. “I choose to take that as a compliment.”
“So, how come you never thought of a career in show business yourself?”
Inquiries of this nature always titillated and annoyed her in equal measure. She had to formulate her response anew each time she tried to explain it to an outsider. “I did think about it when I was much younger. But as I matured, I realized my talents are more along the lines of a adviser. For example, I’m the obvious person to mentor my sister’s career. My folks mean well, but they can’t do it. Their view of life is too constricted by practicalities. They don’t have a real understanding of what it takes to be an artist.”
“So you think your sister can really make a big splash in this show?”
“You have to start somewhere,” Cheryl explained, holding onto her patience with an effort. “It’s true that producers at holes in the wall like Wheaton Stage are essentially amateurs. Not that they can’t stage a decent show, but they don’t have what it takes to lift a talent like Rosie to the next higher arena. For that we’ll need intervention from the outside. You never know what well-connected person might be in the audience on opening night. For that matter, it’s perfectly possible that someone important might wander into rehearsal on an ordinary weekday.”
Cheryl paused for breath. “So since you asked, Dick, this is my current mission in life … to prod and pamper and push Rosie, until she catches the eye of the right person and gets to bask in the bright lights. I might moan sometimes about how hard it is, but I believe in her potential, so I keep at it. I’m determined to rescue at least one member of my family from stagnation.”
“And who is this right person who’s going to discover her?” asked Dick, blinking as if dazzled by her vision.
“I have a mental picture of him. He’s got an artistic bearing, my Mr. Bright Lights. I’m not sure if he’s a producer, a drama teacher, or a critic, but I’m sure I’ll know him when I see him.”
“How do you know it’s even a man?”
“Oh, come on, Dick,” Cheryl scoffed. “Who else has any power in the theatre? Besides, I think I might have seen him already. I caught sight of someone intriguing at rehearsal yesterday. The trouble was, he only stayed fifteen minutes. Then he rushed out, checking his watch as if he was late for another appointment. I’m going back during my lunch hour today, in case he shows up again.”
It was only a hunch, but Cheryl was obsessed with the idea that she had seen Mr. Bright Lights. She recalled the man perched high atop the risers, the best position for observing the trio as they went through their paces on the stage. She recalled his slim form in a striped shirt and suspenders, his full head of dark hair, his evident concentration, the graceful hands that held a program. He exuded artistic refinement, a quality you didn’t observe every day around Wheaton.
“So that’s why you were late getting back from lunch yesterday.” Dick must have been pondering this issue.
“Yes, and I do appreciate your covering for me,” Cheryl replied, “especially since I need to ask the same favor of you today. I believe this man noticed Rosie. Her role as the seductress is meatier than the other girl’s, and her dancing is more dramatic. I’m thinking maybe he’ll come back to talk to her. If so, it’s my responsibility to talk to him first, to make sure he has my sister’s best interests in mind. She’s a bright girl, but immature in some ways.”
Dick looked dubious at her plan, no doubt because it involved another dishonesty on his part. Cheryl felt a twinge of contempt for this bureaucratic mind, so hung up on the issue of her time card that he couldn’t appreciate the wonders she might accomplish during an extended lunch break. Was there any point in trying to educate him?
“You seem awfully impressed with this Mr. Bright Lights of yours,” he blurted. “Your eyes light up when you talk about him. Are you sure you aren’t out to impress him yourself?”
“Oh, please, Dick.” Cheryl laughed out loud. “That shows how much you know about dramatic art.”
He had let her down by failing to grasp the importance of the mentor role. To be reminded of her own aspirations, submerged long ago in favor of Rosie’s, was an annoyance and a distraction. The artistic man she envisioned meeting would understand her better than this. He would recognize her sacrifice as a kind of greatness.
“Are you sure he’s a real man?” Dick blurted again. “I’ve heard there’re a lot of gays in the theatre.”
“Why, Dick, are you jealous?” Cheryl asked. Although her voice was teasing, she thought she might be on to something. “You don’t know anything about men in the theatre. So why would you accuse my Mr. Bright Lights of being gay? Is it because I find him attractive?”
As Dick sputtered for a response, Cheryl glanced at the clock on the wall: eleven-fifteen already. Getting back to Maryland, when her father wasn’t available to drive her, could eat up more than an hour. She must leave the office no later than eleven-thirty to have any hope of getting to the Wheaton Stage in time to see the bulk of rehearsal.
“I gotta leave in a few minutes,” she told Dick. “If you could cover for me again, I’d be eternally grateful.”
“What’ll I tell the boss if he needs you?” Dick asked.
Cheryl brought up to her computer screen an intricate spreadsheet with several gaps in the data. “If anybody asks, you can point to this chart and tell them you sent me to the main building to get the missing figures … that they’re too secret to be transmitted over the phone. Could you do that … for me?”
Dick looked doubtful. “Listen,” she continued, “I really need your help. I wouldn’t ask you to lie for me if it wasn’t super important. I have a feeling today’s the day I’m gonna make the connection I need to make. If I’m right, I’ll never have to ask you again. So please …”
“All right,” he said. “You better get going. It’s a long trip.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
Cheryl rushed out of the office, down to the lobby, and out the door. She stood at the bus pickup area, sweating even before she boarded the shuttle bus for the first leg of her journey. As the bus made its way across the Potomac River and toward the main building in DC, she rehearsed the speech she might deliver if she ever came face to face with her quarry.
Excuse me, sir, but I couldn’t help noticing that this is the second day in a row that you’ve been here. I’ve seen the way you study the actors. It makes me wonder, are you an agent or a producer? If so, I know you must have noticed the real talent in this production, the potential star. There’s no need to kid ourselves about that, is there? It’s not that my sister Rosie’s co-stars aren’t decent, hard-working kids. It’s just that we both know it takes a special quality to rise above a … a hole in the wall like this. Something tells me you’re a man with both the power and the judgment to give a deserving performer a break.”
As Cheryl revised the speech, hoping to make it sound confident and natural, doubts assailed her. She wondered sometimes if Rosie were deserving of such an effort. That self-assurance of hers … the folks had been known to call it arrogance … grated on Cheryl too, but she believed it served Rosie well as a performer. Another thought … would Rosie remember and appreciate her older sister’s help once she was launched? Perhaps this didn’t matter either. Whether Rosie ever thanked her or not, Cheryl would cherish the image of herself as a backstage power. That was the vision propelling her into the unknown.
Cheryl pressed on, boarding the second bus en route to the Metro train. She began to sense a dreamy rightness to this excursion. She was making her connections as if by magic. The possibility of being reprimanded at the office, due to an unexplained absence, drifted to the back of her mind, to be smoothed over later like an overdue bill.
Moving purposefully, Cheryl bent every effort toward arriving at her destination before the troupe departed for its lunch break. She exited the train, bounded up the escalator, and crossed the street against the lights. She hurried past the storefronts of the shopping center, checking her watch. Seeing that it was past noon, she picked up her pace. She was late, but maybe she’d get there just in time to catch the last few minutes of morning rehearsal.
Rounding the corner, Cheryl spotted a man standing in front of the theatre, checking his own watch and shaking his head. Evidently, both he and she had missed rehearsal. Seeing him turn away to leave, Cheryl ran toward him. As she drew closer, she noted the full head of dark hair, the shirt and suspenders, the graceful hands. Yes, he was the man she had seen at rehearsal yesterday. She had only a few seconds to connect with him before he would be gone. “Excuse me, sir!” she shouted.
He turned back, his eyes lighting up as if with recognition. Was it possible he had seen her in the audience yesterday? She groped for the first phrases of her planned speech. He smiled as he observed her struggle to speak, but she noted a hint of impatience as well. He was in a hurry, like all prominent men, and any business she had with him must be conducted with dispatch.
“I’ve only got a moment,” he confirmed, but his voice was well-tempered, almost musical. “I have an appointment downtown in an hour, and I must be back in New York by eight o’clock tonight. “It’s incredible good luck, running into you like this.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Cheryl agreed, tingling at the mention of New York. She tried again to begin her pitch, only to find herself transfixed by his comprehending look. Was it possible there was no need for explanations? That he understood, without her saying a word, who she was and what she was about? He pressed his card into her hand, and prepared to melt away into the midday shopping crowd, like those dreams that escaped her grasp at daylight. How could she hold him back for a moment? To get her bearings, she glanced at the card: “The Travis Brothers Academy of the Performing Arts, 30 W. 30th Street, New York, New York.”
Her hand closed around this lifeline. So her Mr. Bright Lights was a teacher of performing arts in New York! No wonder he was so discerning. He was no shallow impresario who toured these theatres to pluck off prospects like Rosie, merely to stick them in another obscure show. No, this man was engaged in the noble mission of discovering and molding genuine talent.
“Oh, sir,” she wheedled, on the point of losing him, “won’t you stay a while longer … maybe long enough to catch some of the afternoon rehearsal?”
The urgency in her voice seemed to turn him around. His smile reappeared, making her almost tremble like a supplicant before a holy man, yet boosting her courage at the same time.
“I’ve seen everything I need to see here. What I’d like to see next, my dear, is your lovely self in New York four weeks from Monday, when our fall term begins.”
He vanished before she could react to this extraordinary statement. She felt as if she were in the grip of a lingering spell. It could only have been magic that enabled her to convince him, and almost convince herself, that she was Rosie. This instance of mistaken identity could have been cleared up with a word. Why, then, had she not spoken?
Perhaps she couldn’t resist the way he had referred to her “lovely self,” as if he had discerned depths far more meaningful than lithe beauty. What could he possibly have seen in an aging Federal secretary? Was it the remnants of grace and elegance, sacrificed to a somewhat careless diet? The wiles of an actress, sharpened by a tendency toward sarcasm? The soul of a dancer, grown stiff with years spent behind an office desk?
After the encounter, Cheryl made her way back to the subway, hurrying like any other day worker returning from lunch. Weighed down with heat and humidity, her feet hit the pavement like anvils, while her toes tingled with anticipation. She boarded the train and settled back for the interminable ride downtown, which soon made her feel feverish. The familiar stops whizzed by in a disorienting fashion.
Why must she return to the office? True, it would be proper procedure to take official leave of the agency … but would she make it that far? The stop at Union Station loomed ahead: this was also the point of departure for trains heading north. What if the sight of the railway, teeming with promises of new vistas, inspired her to desert everything? Why shouldn’t she head to the City of Bright Lights?
That, she reasoned, would be hasty. Cheryl had been granted four weeks to remake herself into the image of … what, exactly? Would she go on passing for her sister, or would she succeed in passing her sister by? She knew she harbored complexities of character that the callow, arrogant youngster couldn’t match. Who could say what heights might be attained by a mature visionary willing to commit herself to a four-week regimen of dieting and training? The illusion, she assured herself, could last forever.
She rode this conviction past Union Station, and held fast to it as she exited the train and boarded the bus amid the jostling crowd at Metro Center. She cherished it as she emerged from the bus and began jogging toward the Main State building to make her connection. The dream chased her toward the 12:45 shuttle departing for Rosslyn, but the bus left without her. She was left fuming and sweating in the shadow of the great bureaucracy, which soon cast a chill upon her spirits. Numerous men like her father were at their posts, awaiting impersonal charts from the computers of so many typists. Her dream deflated before that vision of reality. The neat columns that she was charged with typing had stamped themselves into her brain, constricting the free flow of her imagination.
By the time Cheryl caught the next shuttle, which took her across the river, she was leaden-footed from her exertions. She reached her desk, and fell into her chair like a bag of laundry. It was too strenuous, she reflected, this effort to compress all of life’s struggles into the space of a lunch hour.
Dick was on hand to observe her late return. “Well, how did it go? Did you meet your Mr. Bright Lights, and was he all you expected?”
She stared him down, as if he had made a joke at her expense. Humiliation swept through her, followed by something like contempt. But who was that feeling directed to? Maybe herself?
“Tell me something, Dick.” She gestured toward the program on her typing stand. “Based on this picture, do you think you could ever mistake me for my sister? Even if you were in a terrible hurry?”
Grappling with the task of comparing the sisters, Dick stammered: “I don’t think so. The truth is … I like you a lot better. You’re not so … I don’t know, so theatrical. You’re more of a real person.”
Cheryl furrowed her brow as she considered this. She ought to chastise Dick for his inartistic outlook. But she couldn’t deny he had paid her a compliment … and for the first time, his lack of artistry attracted her. That was what made her commit the unprecedented act of smiling warmly at one of her bosses. Then, without thinking, she stood up and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“Watch out for sexual harassment,” Dick quipped, blushing a little but smiling.
“All in all, I suspect Mr. Bright Lights wasn’t the big-time talent scout I thought he was. Maybe he wasn’t my ideal man after all. I found him … I don’t know … too theatrical.”
Flirtation was the one art that could be cultivated in this setting. So she might as well hone her skills as a tease, since she wouldn’t be training as a dancer. “Maybe one day you’ll get farther than he did with me, if you make all the right moves, Dick. Suppose you wine and dine me the night we go to Wheaton for my sister’s opening. When the time is right, I’ll let you kiss me on the lips. You can be my Mr. Soft Lights.”
BUTTERFLIES, BUBBLES AND DREAMS...THE 'THINGS' THAT MAKE UP A WOULD-BE MENTOR'S FAMILY LIFE AND LUNCH HOUR...ENTERTAINING AND ENJOYED. THANKS FOR SHARING, LINDA. LOVE, BLESSINGS AND FAITH...JOYCE * HIS INSPIRATIONS
Your well-written moving story propelled me throughout. While I would have loved to have seen Cheryl rise above mediocrity--such is life which makes your story all the more poignant.
I thought this was this going to be another romance story. In a way, I guess it was. But when the tempo changed, I really got interested in the ending, only to find that it looked like your heroin was going to settle for what she had rather than what her potential was.
Well written and motivated me to wade through the dense text.
A lifetime ago, in 1973, I had the option to go to Transpo 73, transportation secretary Volpe's big show. Following the trend, we took the Amtrak from Grafton, West Virginia all the way in to DC. We arrived at Union Station, and I marveled at the beautiful old station way back then.
Major League ballplayer Justin Moore is kidnapped from his own ballpark and transported to a foreign land. It might take high-level international negotiations to free him. Or maybe he will take matters into his own hands.
Imogene, a country-bred girl, longs to make a life for herself in New York City. She joins forces with her former college roommate to start a movie production company in the big city.
