My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie No one knew what to do when the diegetic music stopped. It was supposed to keep going throughout the entire scene, but the piano had suddenly dropped off. It hadn't even faded - there was a simple progression of major chords, crescendoing into a waterfall of notes, and then it was like someone had taken a silent hammer to either the ivory keys or the pianist's hands. The director rose from her seat, sweating noticeably. She wiped her wet hands on her slacks and then clapped a soggy clap. " Cut!" The awkward ensemble of extras shuffled to the corner, while the hot-headed lead actor strutted toward the director, obviously fuming. "I told you to fire that musician," he scowled. "She's much older than you are. Her hands act up sometimes." "We haven't even gotten to the part where I compliment the damn woman on it! My token line. 'You must have dug up Mozart's fingers and had them attached ...

Jennifer proceeded to clamp her teeth down on her mother's hand, hard, though not hard enough to draw blood. The bite, however, was enough to elicit a high-pitched, squawking scream, as the poor woman tried to shake her daughter off her arm like a bird trying to ruffle its feathers. I stood up from my chair then, leaving my unfinished meatloaf behind. "Jennifer," I said. "Sit." She stared, mouth still on skin. "You're going to act like a dog, I treat you like a dog. Sit ."