THE WAITER.
I have watched one Mimi after another, one Rodolpho after another, come and go. For a season or two, they would shine brightly and be applauded after every aria. Then they would slip a little; a new wrinkle, a few extra pounds, a strained voice. It never took much for a newer idol to supplant them. How fleeting was fame for them. Yet I was always there. In my waiter's uniform, without speaking or singing, I carried on night after night, year after year. Each time a sterling performance.
Yet I am to be replaced. After forty years, I am to be replaced. I, who have held my part in La Boheme against all comers, must now go. My whole life was that part. I am that part. And now they say I must go.
I carried on in spite of everything. The occasional stubbornness of Musetta's poodles. The dinner plate that sometimes broke into a thousand pieces and at other times into none when she dropped it. The Bohemians blocking my path to a cafe table. All potentially disturbing, but turned by me instead to add to the opera. An extra laugh. Color. Movement. The audience would drink it all in without knowing.
They say I'm getting too old and slow for the part. Nonsense! Am I not even now in my top form? I have never missed a performance, never made a mistake. True, it does seem to get harder every year to pick up the pieces of Musetta's plate. And to get the Bohemians table set on time is getting more difficult. That “Hurry, hurry" of theirs is becoming annoying.
Worst of all, my talents were never fully recognized. The management took advantage of me with the low salary. The leads looked on me as a necessary nuisance; never realizing their own fleeting tenure. The chorus and other bit-players were even more transient than the leads and were never around long enough. It was just pocket money for them until a better job came along; like painting a house. The audiences always seemed oblivious to my presence. Even the children, the bright-eyed, laughing children outside the Cafe Momus, did not see me.
My only friend was Alcindoro. He came from nowhere one day and has stayed these last ten years. Once a month we meet after a performance and go to a small cafe downtown. A cafe just like the Cafe Momus, where we can sit and dream. That aging playboy now needs little make-up to play his part. He's the one who should be retired, not I. He has arthritis in his back and a perennial hoarseness. I could tell them. Neither of these troubles affect me. Why am I the one they're picking on?
No, I'm not bitter. The years have been good to me. In small ways, life's rewards have come to me. True, I have never gotten a single curtain call, much less a review. My life outside the theater is nothing but rented rooms, eating out, reading newspapers, and day-dreaming. Just thinking of my performances brings a smile to my lips and satisfaction to my heart. Right at the high point of Act 2, I stride to the center of the carefree Bohemians at Cafe Momus and present the bill. For that instant, my stern, haughty presence dominates the stage and the entire theater. I, who never speak or sing, prevail for those few glorious moments. Then, at the end of the Act, when Alcindoro returns to the Cafe for Musetta, I triumph once again. Finding the place empty, Alcindoro peers down the street looking for Musetta. At that moment, I stride out, bill in one hand, poodle in the other and wave the bill under his nose. As the curtain falls and Alcindoro collapses into a nearby chair, I stand supreme. Such satisfaction. Such dreams.
Do not think it amiss of me if I confide in you that I always make up early so that I can watch myself in the mirrors. I used to have a helper who made me up, but they took her away five years ago. I must make myself up now, but I do enjoy it so. I start with a good flesh-colored base and add brown to hollow my cheeks, forehead, and nose. Black accent lines create a permanently dour expression. Then comes some white to highlight the brown, red for the lips, and a final powdering of white. Why I could be a match for that world famous grandmaster of the mime, Marcel Marceau. My helper used to say that I had a very good face. And I've pushed the boulder up the hill with the best of them.
Little good all my effort does me now. After years of faithful, sterling performance and service, I'm being let go. The company is letting me go. They are moving to a new opera house and want new blood to help fill the seats. What do they really know, though? Didn't they sell the old house to the wreckers when they could have rented it at a profit to touring companies? Like two old workhorses with years of service, we are being turned out. The Met and me. Turned out for something new, untried, and certain to be of fleeting fame. They cannot take my dreams from me. From my bench in the park, I'll dream my triumphs. They're the ones who'll be sorry.
* * *
Note: Written the year of the new Metropolitan Opera House.
© S.K. Poultney 1967 and 1990
Yet I am to be replaced. After forty years, I am to be replaced. I, who have held my part in La Boheme against all comers, must now go. My whole life was that part. I am that part. And now they say I must go.
I carried on in spite of everything. The occasional stubbornness of Musetta's poodles. The dinner plate that sometimes broke into a thousand pieces and at other times into none when she dropped it. The Bohemians blocking my path to a cafe table. All potentially disturbing, but turned by me instead to add to the opera. An extra laugh. Color. Movement. The audience would drink it all in without knowing.
They say I'm getting too old and slow for the part. Nonsense! Am I not even now in my top form? I have never missed a performance, never made a mistake. True, it does seem to get harder every year to pick up the pieces of Musetta's plate. And to get the Bohemians table set on time is getting more difficult. That “Hurry, hurry" of theirs is becoming annoying.
Worst of all, my talents were never fully recognized. The management took advantage of me with the low salary. The leads looked on me as a necessary nuisance; never realizing their own fleeting tenure. The chorus and other bit-players were even more transient than the leads and were never around long enough. It was just pocket money for them until a better job came along; like painting a house. The audiences always seemed oblivious to my presence. Even the children, the bright-eyed, laughing children outside the Cafe Momus, did not see me.
My only friend was Alcindoro. He came from nowhere one day and has stayed these last ten years. Once a month we meet after a performance and go to a small cafe downtown. A cafe just like the Cafe Momus, where we can sit and dream. That aging playboy now needs little make-up to play his part. He's the one who should be retired, not I. He has arthritis in his back and a perennial hoarseness. I could tell them. Neither of these troubles affect me. Why am I the one they're picking on?
No, I'm not bitter. The years have been good to me. In small ways, life's rewards have come to me. True, I have never gotten a single curtain call, much less a review. My life outside the theater is nothing but rented rooms, eating out, reading newspapers, and day-dreaming. Just thinking of my performances brings a smile to my lips and satisfaction to my heart. Right at the high point of Act 2, I stride to the center of the carefree Bohemians at Cafe Momus and present the bill. For that instant, my stern, haughty presence dominates the stage and the entire theater. I, who never speak or sing, prevail for those few glorious moments. Then, at the end of the Act, when Alcindoro returns to the Cafe for Musetta, I triumph once again. Finding the place empty, Alcindoro peers down the street looking for Musetta. At that moment, I stride out, bill in one hand, poodle in the other and wave the bill under his nose. As the curtain falls and Alcindoro collapses into a nearby chair, I stand supreme. Such satisfaction. Such dreams.
Do not think it amiss of me if I confide in you that I always make up early so that I can watch myself in the mirrors. I used to have a helper who made me up, but they took her away five years ago. I must make myself up now, but I do enjoy it so. I start with a good flesh-colored base and add brown to hollow my cheeks, forehead, and nose. Black accent lines create a permanently dour expression. Then comes some white to highlight the brown, red for the lips, and a final powdering of white. Why I could be a match for that world famous grandmaster of the mime, Marcel Marceau. My helper used to say that I had a very good face. And I've pushed the boulder up the hill with the best of them.
Little good all my effort does me now. After years of faithful, sterling performance and service, I'm being let go. The company is letting me go. They are moving to a new opera house and want new blood to help fill the seats. What do they really know, though? Didn't they sell the old house to the wreckers when they could have rented it at a profit to touring companies? Like two old workhorses with years of service, we are being turned out. The Met and me. Turned out for something new, untried, and certain to be of fleeting fame. They cannot take my dreams from me. From my bench in the park, I'll dream my triumphs. They're the ones who'll be sorry.
* * *
Note: Written the year of the new Metropolitan Opera House.
© S.K. Poultney 1967 and 1990
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