[ by jorge machado ]
He stands on the stage in absolute nonchalance and faces the audience in the dark. He is in control. Or is he? He remains calm as nobody laughs at his last joke. Not a sound from the crowd. Nothing. He shoots another joke about doing the taxes and wives or something of the sort. There is that silence again. That stillness that he can almost reach out and touch now. That coldness.
He can�t see any faces, only shadows sitting in the chairs at those small round tables. And they are very, very still. They�re not even touching their drinks anymore. he�s used to dealing with hostile crowds, but this is too much, even for him. Thank you, good night!, [ and good riddance, he thinks ]. He steps down from the stage and walks over to the bar. There should be an act right after his, but nothing is happening. The spotlight on the stage is mysteriously dimmed. He doesn�t give it much thought � too tired to care � and orders an ice tea. The shadow across the bar seems to look in his general direction and listen. He is served while he pans the room for movement. When his eyes return to the point of departure, his drink is there. The ice tea is not cool at all. It does not even taste much like ice tea. It tastes a little like bourbon � old and corked bourbon with a pinch of sugar thrown in. Highly irregular. He looks for the bartender to complain, but he seems to be gone.
The crowd is sitting, shiftless. There is no music. His eye lands on a battered jukebox, one that�s heavy and rusty with years of good service. He saunters over and rummages around in his pockets for change to put in. Change he has not. In a fit of indignation, he kicks the machine. As if by magic, it starts to work and Aretha Franklin comes on. It could have been a better song, but it will do. Then he starts to wonder what is wrong with the people around him. Why don�t they move? Why don�t they make a sound? They were downright cheerful when he came onstage. He considers approaching one of the tables � just to find out what the big quiet is all about.
He leaves his ice tea turned bourbon on the counter and tries to accost the first sitter his eyes land on. From a yard or two off, there seemed to be someone sitting at the table. There isn�t anybody there. A trick of the light, he thinks. These things are amazing. I�m seeing afterimages, I was under the spotlight for so long. A trick of the light. So he turns to next person, who also turns out to be a shadow, not really there either. As he repeats the process he finds himself standing amidst an array of tables where nobody is sitting, just shadows that give off the illusion of being people in the dark. This is amazing, he finds himself thinking. I was performing to a crowd of shadows. No wonder nobody laughed. Whatever. I still get paid.
He ambles on back to the bar and yells for the bartender. He wants his pay. Nobody answers. This place is not normal. What the hell. I come back tomorrow morning, I get paid, end of story. What am I bothering myself for. He casts a glance back as he reaches for the doorknob. All quiet shadows, very still. The exit door is stuck. He�s on a stint of very bad luck, or so it seems. He tries to force it once and again, and again. It is a heavy-set door with a foolproof lock. He kicks it in desperation once and twice and more. The room temperature lowers. He feels a chill on the nape of his neck. He looks at the quiet room for the last time.
The shadows are upon him.