Backstage, I looked like a crazy person. I was talking to myself without making any noise, mouthing some nonexistent chorus. I was throwing my hands in the air, leaning over imaginary chairs, a little kick to the side. I was straightening my stockings, over and over and over again — looking back, restraightening. That was the middle of my leg, right? “They’re straight, they’re straight! Christ!” the Emcee laughed, his giant zoot suit shaking. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to die. I briefly considered escaping through the kitchen and pushing the wheeled laundry carts at anyone who tried to get in my way.
The lights went out. The chairs were set, they called my name. And as soon as the music began, I realized: oh right, this is going to be fun.