Tap, tap, tap. “Okay, people, pay attention,” the choreographer shouts over the pounding piano, “…again, step, kick….”
I move to my mark on the stage and line up with the other hoofers in the chorus line.
“Step, step, shift, turn,” I feel the momentum. A spotlight illuminates us. My swaddled legs kick in time with the other dancers. Did I stretch? I feel the rush, and I sweat struggling from the effort. Camphor fills my nostrils. I tip my imaginary hat. The music hits a crescendo. Bend at the waist. Turn. Smile. Is anybody watching? Am I gesticulating too much? I want to burst into song. I love to sing, but for now I hum quietly. No one suspects. The orchestra erupts as I pick up the pace.
“I really need this job…”
Thud! A hairy guy in the corner drops his weights, jolting me. The chorus line disappears. I’m in the gym, back in the moment.
My iPad’s perched on the lip of the treadmill; earbuds plugged in. I’d set the pace at 3.5 — fast enough to do three miles in an hour. At first, I thought I’d watch a lecture, maybe one on free will to fuel an ongoing debate with John. But I can’t focus — maybe hormones, maybe something else. So, I settle on music. A Chorus Line.
I warm up again, try to disappear into the beat. But through the window, life intrudes. Autumn leaves float to the pavement. A group of preschoolers walks past, each clutching a guide rope. One boy pulls the hair of the girl in front. She smacks him. I smile. The teacher intervenes.
I think of the kids’ futures — John’s writing about education. He’s in the gym too, lingering near the recumbent bikes, holding court with a friend. If he talks too long, he won’t hit his 45 minutes. I ignore him. My goal is one hour. Will Chorus Line last?
An older group of women arrive. They shuffle across the lot, clutching their gym bags like life preservers. I pick up my pace, imagining the dancers — young, sharp, alive. On the next machine, a balding woman wheezes. Her breath sounds like it’s being dragged from somewhere deep.
I speed up. I don’t want to hear it. Don’t want to be it.
Turn, spin, smile.
“One, singular sensation…” echoes.
The score ends.
The treadmill slows. I cool down, muscles trembling. Three miles. Feels like ten. I spot John in the lobby, waving. I close the iPad. Step off the machine, knees aching. I need to stretch. Maybe an ice bath.
But then I see it. A dance flyer, taped to the side of the check-in desk.
Community Theater Auditions — A Chorus Line.
Next week.
My breath catches. I stare at the bold black letters. They’re doing my show.
“Ready?” John calls.
I don’t answer right away. My reflection in the glass catches me off-guard — flushed, tired, older than I feel inside. But beneath the sweat and age and ache, there’s still something pulsing. Still alive.
I pick up the flyer. Fold it.
John frowns. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” I say. But it’s not.
For the first time in ages, it feels like something.
As we walk out into the crisp air, I hum under my breath. Not just the tune — The words.
“I really need this job.”
Joanne Sutera lives and writes fiction and poetry in New Jersey. She belongs to several writing groups. She is published in U.S.1, The Kelsey Review, Paterson Literary Review and US 1 Worksheets.
