Chapter 25 Logan
LOGAN
On day one of dress rehearsals, one week out from opening night, Richie figures out the star drop problem.
A new issue pops up: A full moon backdrop was never painted.
That’s how it’s been for the past few days.
We take one step forward and two steps back.
We rebuild the dock’s legs, but the new corner snags on the curtain.
The canoe now glides out to center stage, but it’s wobbly on its track, making the actors, who are now rehearsing in full hair and makeup, nervous.
What’s making me nervous is that Mrs. Walker is here for today’s rehearsal. Her presence brings an entirely new energy to the space. And that’s on top of the questionable energy An-Ming called out.
Since An-Ming provided her recommendations for bringing more balance into the theater, I organized everything from top to bottom over the weekend. I did manage to get clearance for a few plants, but it was a no to the fish tank.
During one of our breaks, I head out to the woodshop we’ve set up on the sidewalk outside the theater.
I clear my head with fresh air and a personal project that takes me out of the world of Windfall.
It feels good working with my chop saw and building something again with my hands, even for just thirty minutes.
Maybe I should’ve never stopped being a carpenter.
“Logan! Are you avoiding me?” Mrs. Walker asks over the buzz of my saw.
She’s bundled up in an oversize wool jacket, her shoulder-length, highlighted blond hair styled in its usual way.
I cut the power and remove my goggles. “Impossible. You know where I live.”
Mrs. Walker smirks. “It’s true. I’m unavoidable.” She checks the time on her gold watch. “Got time for a break? I need to get my joints moving.”
“Of course,” I say, holding out my arm for her to link hers through for stability.
“It’s nice to see my creations getting some wear,” she says, motioning toward my tie-dye shirt.
“They’re perfectly good clothes,” I say. “I’ve worn them for almost every show I’ve worked on.” I always thought they were lucky, but now I don’t know what they are.
Mrs. Walker subtly lifts her cheetah-printed silk scarf. “I’ve got one, too. Don’t tell anyone. I just didn’t peg you as the superstitious type.”
We slowly walk toward Times Square, which is slightly less busy than it was twenty minutes ago. The matinee shows have started. “Why’s that?” I ask.
“You’ve always struck me as a make-your-own-luck kind of guy,” Mrs. Walker says, peering up at me through her bangs. “How are things? I’ve heard it’s been a rough start.”
Mrs. Walker has poured her money into this show. She’s fought for it to get to Broadway. I don’t want her to be more stressed or to think that we—I—can’t handle it. Especially not after what she’s done for me.
I can respond positively. Challenges make us better, I almost say.
Nothing we can’t handle has been a comfortable go-to.
I’m grateful to even have this job. Another subtle way I’ve basically gaslit myself in the name of gratitude.
But that would be dishonest for what Mrs. Walker’s really trying to ask.
I can redirect. Readjust. Or at least try. Clearly, this is a mindset that’s going to take a while to retrain.
“It has been rough, yes. Very rough, actually,” I admit. I practically have to bite down on my tongue from tacking on anything else that counteracts this statement. “Have you ever wanted to not produce?”
“You’re asking if I ever wanted to quit?” Mrs. Walker asks as I nod. “Most days. I’ve thought about starting over. Going back into acting. Hell, I’ve even considered retiring. Long before now.”
“Why didn’t you?” I ask, keeping hold of Mrs. Walker by her arm.
“Working in the theater, it’s demanding. What every single person does within those walls is hard work. But we’re on Broadway! This is the dream.” Her head swivels over to me. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of quitting.”
I glance up at the billboards featuring shows old and new.
“I just… I thought I’d be more prepared,” I say.
“More ready. I don’t know if I can do this.
I don’t know if this is going to make my rent go up, but…
so many things have gone wrong because of me.
I wanted to do right by you and Roman. I couldn’t even do that after everything you’ve done for me. ”
Saying this to my boss and my landlord is probably not the way to handle this. I’m in charge. I should be portraying the picture of confidence, but that’s just not where I am.
Mrs. Walker’s mouth is a hard underscore before she releases a long sigh. “Ah well. Love does that to a person.”
I do a double-take, looking over as her words take a second to sink in. Then I’m not so confused.
“Is it that obvious?” I ask.
She chuckles. “Is Times Square bright at night?” she poses. “I’ve never heard you utter a negative word in the entire time I’ve known you, so clearly someone’s affected you in a good way.”
“You think my negativity is good?”
“I think the fact you’re being honest about how hard work has been is good,” she clarifies.
I’m back to being confused. It must come across in my silence as I try to figure it out.
Mrs. Walker clasps my arm. “It’s easy when a job is your entire life. It’s all you have to think about, all you have to focus on.” She looks up at me. “But when your life is your job and someone else, well, it’s different. Love… it’s the greatest thing in the world. It’s also distracting.”
“I promise you this show is important to me. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it.”
We’re in the thick of Times Square now, shuffling past people—tourists, mostly—in our lap around the block.
Most people I meet think of this area as chaos.
These five blocks contain the best theater productions in the world, plus shopping, restaurants, and the brightest lights in all of Manhattan. Chaos? It’s more like an energy source.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Mrs. Walker says as we pass a human-size Minnie Mouse.
I immediately think of Hazel and her tattoo.
“This work saved your life. I know how important it is to you. And now you’ve found someone who makes you want to put work second.
And I don’t mean it doesn’t matter to you, but not everything can come first. When your priorities shift like this, growth happens. Growth is uncomfortable.”
Can that be true? Do I really care more about Hazel than I care about my work? I couldn’t even pinpoint the moment that happened. Ever since meeting her, she just gradually, naturally, became more important. She became my priority.
“When a show moves from Off Broadway to Broadway,” Mrs. Walker continues, “there’s a lot of discomfort that comes with it.
It’s hard to see something great change, but it must. You need more money, production becomes more complicated, the sets get bigger.
The show isn’t better or worse, but it is different. You have to learn to accept that.”
“And I’m… Broadway now?” I ask, trying to keep up.
“Your life has more in it. You’re on Broadway and in love,” she says dreamily. “It doesn’t get better than that!”
“So I need to learn to be uncomfortable with being bad at my job because I’m in love.”
“As your employer, I’m probably required to tell you not to be bad at your job, but yeah.
You have to make room for the other stuff, too.
” Mrs. Walker jabs her finger in the air toward a theater we pass by.
“These shows come and go. Once-in-a-lifetime love doesn’t.
” She taps my arm. “I care more about you than this job.”
“Really?”
“I can’t believe I even need to say it. I also care more about my husband in the ground than this job,” she says, clearing her throat at the mention of her husband.
“I met Roman when I was in Cats. Something changed inside me,” she says.
“I thought my world was going to come crashing down on me. Not unlike the Windfall set.”
“Ha, ha,” I mumble as we make a turn around the corner and away from the crowds. “Is that what happened to your world? Did it crash down?”
“The opposite. Love built me up,” Mrs. Walker says. “My life expanded when I met him. Suddenly, my whole world wasn’t just that one role I played onstage every night. It was so much more.”
I nod, taking in every piece she shares with me.
“As for doing right by me and Roman, you already have, Logan,” she says earnestly.
“Don’t you see? You were there for me after he died just as much as I was there for you.
It was your excitement about getting to New York, about getting to Broadway, that reinvigorated”—she waves her hand in front of us—“all this for me. And okay, fine, the biscotti helped, too.”
At this, a boulder lifts off my shoulders. All this time, she had offered me such tangible help—an apartment, a job—that I didn’t think I was giving enough back. Maybe I was.
Mrs. Walker smiles toward the clouds. “As for Roman, he’d be thrilled something he wrote was being mentioned in the same breath as Broadway. Doing this as my last show… it’s one hell of a way to go out.”
“You’ve always known how to make an entrance and an exit.”
She bumps me with her elbow. “Keep up the flattery, and I’ll knock another ten percent off your rent,” she says through a chuckle.
We pause for a couple of latecomers sprinting toward a theater.
“Sometimes we get too into the weeds with how we think things need to go that we forget to appreciate that they’re even happening at all.
” She turns to face me. “There will be mistakes, Logan. They won’t be the end of the world. ”
The words hit their mark. Mistakes won’t be the end of the world because they won’t be my entire world.
Once, this job was everything to me. Now it’s not even close to being everything.