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I imagined it to be a sort of pseudo-holiday,
with discussions about umbrellas and our airy voices.
When I had heard about her fall, which occurred
during a rousing rendition of Chim Chim Cher-ee,
I felt awful,
Because in a place that poorly lit,
the kind of shade
where men with guns and dated
dance moves dwell in,
your thoughts become itchy.
So I jumped in for her.
The fall was swift, and the problem
was that it didn’t kill me.
What I thought would be a delightful sing-a-long upon my arrival
was really a chance for Ms. Andrews to reveal her true self,
a finicky bitch,
full of anger over her confinement
and the current state of the musical.
And when she would break into her brilliant falsettos,
it was only to cut me off mid-sentence,
as though to
test my commitment to our struggle.
Jules, I finally said,
stop being yourself,
and then I might not feel so bad.
And what a lovely echo those words created.
It sounded as though everyone should have
heard it,
found us,
got the rescue operation underway.
But we hoped they would fail.
Though we loathed
each other, you get used
to a certain level of discomfort,
can recall the exact moment the pang is muffled.
Remember your favorite things enough, she said,
and then you’ll feel awful
because they lose all their flavor.
And that’s what being in a hole that deep is—
wondering if you even like the light anymore.
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