Then I looked out through the flimsy curtains that separated the negligible backstage area from the tables, and realized we had a new problem.
"Where's my
ramp?"
"It was there
ten minutes ago." Ramon, the owner, looked about as relaxed as a 300-pound
former bouncer could look with a full house just before the first show of the
night.
He didn't look so
relaxed five minutes later, when his two go-fers verified the ramp to let my
wheelchair get up onto the stage had evaporated into thin air. We had exactly
five more minutes until I had to get out there and do my routine. It took us
three minutes to decide we couldn't get a board in time that was long enough,
thick enough, and wide enough to improvise a ramp. It wasn't like I could back
out at the last minute. This was my fifth performance at Ramon's club, and I
had worked my way up to actually having my name on the mobile marquee out
front. Chances were good at least a dozen of the people out there had come
specifically to see me perform. And anyway, the understanding was that after
five or six return performances, Ramon offered a contract of some kind. I needed
that ego boost after the wretched day I had.
That left the only
other option: roadies.
Honestly, I had been
joking when I referred to Pete and Harry as my roadies, because I was mobile
enough to get myself in and out of my Jeep, even without my telekinesis. But
tonight, there was no way in the world I could get myself up onto that stage
without visible, physical help. I was here to do a comedy routine and that
contract for regular performances and some steady money was close enough I
could taste it. Very attractive, now that I wanted badly to bail on my job at
the Tattler. I certainly wasn't there to audition for a revival of the X-Files.
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