Back to Earth

I don’t know where my shoes are.

They’re here, somewhere.

It’s roughly midnight on a Saturday night.

Half of us are in our underwear.

Sweaty.

Disheveled.

Clothes are scattered across the floor like an orgy-tornado passed through.

An empty plastic ketchup bottle we use for the dinner scene is poking out from under the stage stairs.

A hair dryer Magenta uses during “Toucha Me.”

Mouse ears Columbia wears.

A sonic transducer Riff Raff uses to annihilate Frank.

A rubber banana Norm mostly uses to terrorize.

Unrelated and bizarre items by themselves, but each one is completely necessary.

(Yes, even the goddamn banana.)

A trance settles over the room, and none of us knows what to do with ourselves.

Sounds are garbled, like traveling through water.

People have their phones out, still taking pictures. It’s too early to change into street clothes.

The last guest filters out into the night.

My body hasn’t gotten the message that it’s over yet.

I’m on fire. Buzzing. Tingling.

I can still hear the applause, the laughter, the callbacks.

How alive can one person feel?

Going back into your cocoon after being perceived.

Onstage, I want every eye in the room on me.

I want them to see the costume. The movement. The smile. The confidence.

I want to fill the room.

And when the curtain drops, I want to disappear.

Put my sweater on with the hood up.

Shrink.

My sleeves are too long.

I pull the dirty, fraying edges over my hands.

Less exposed.

My nervous system is still on alert.

I borrow makeup-removing wipes.

Thirty seconds to remove what I spent an hour and a half putting on.

Relief.

The color drains from my mouth.

Lipstick I reserve only for performances.

I peel the lashes from my eyelids and glance in the mirror.

I resemble a lizard.

My castmates think that’s really funny.

I did my nails for the night.

They’re long, obnoxious, and gorgeous.

The only real piece I carry over into the next morning.

They catch the light when I reach for my coffee.

Am I even the same woman from last night?

My aching body plops heavily on the couch.

Bags from last night are strewn beside me.

Costumes half-spilling out of the bag that landed on its side.

Props and make-up in another.

My boa snaked between them.

The shoes I couldn’t find twelve hours ago are sitting right there.

Everything I need to get on stage and do it again is within arm’s reach.

The bags beside me will be packed, unpacked, and packed again.

I think to myself,

I had a good fucking time.