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Featured Author - March Bruekmann Story of the week: View past Author's of the Month |
Just thinking back to some of Ashleigh Treigh’s performances; if you’d seen her, you’d know what I’m talking about. No machine could ever be that good. Were its wires filled with the adrenaline of that first moment on stage? Did it have a heart that could beat in rhythm with the music? Did the whispers of the crowd move this robot? Could it sense the audience’s excitement and draw energy from it? Was it capable of feeling goosebumps cascade across its plastic flesh when the audience cheered it? Could it feel the exhilaration after a perfectly executed performance? Did it have a sense of utter fulfillment and satisfaction and contentment when the night was over and the lights went off, when the seats were empty and the crowds were gone? As I’ve explained, I had serious doubts as soon as I was informed of the extraordinary last-minute change in cast. Especially after the director accidentally spilled the beans that her maintenance schedule conflicted with her performances, so it had been decided by management that the routine maintenance was to be postponed. Well, the moment I laid eyes on the two-bit manufactured madam, all of my misgivings seemed very well founded. She was made-up to resemble Ashleigh Treigh from a distance. Same slim build, long legs, thin neck. The short blond hair was done up in a tight ponytail. The hair was stretched back to reveal a smooth and barren forehead, and unlike Treigh’s, it wasn’t creased by lines of life and worry. It was devoid of thought, experience. And her eyes were dead, like marbles sitting in plastic cups. No focus, no flicker of intelligence. No curiosity, no dazzle, no sparkle of vitality. This was not Ashleigh Treigh. And in the performance, everything unfolded more or less as I has foreseen. I couldn’t predict the details, but I just knew something terrible was going to happen. I remember standing with her behind the two-story high curtains. I knew that in moments, after the introduction was complete, the curtains would part like the thighs of a beautiful young mother, about to give birth to my career. “Why are you shaking?” The faux-Ashleigh Treigh had asked me. It seemed like the machine was accusing me of weakness, of being soft. That’s never a problem, I guess, if you’re made out of metal. I don’t remember how I replied. Anyway. Everything went off fine until the Intermission. |
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