Art Center play

I was minding my own business, studying by myself quietly when this guy said we should go to the back room. I followed, watching him carefully. He turned and swung his hand at my face. I stepped back in surprise. A couple seconds later, I took a couple of steps and fell to the floor in a faint.
Around the piano a silent figure waving a razor sharp knife, stalked, chased and nearly killed the fast talking man who had come looking for a job. On the other side of the wall, our 17 year-old visitor from Germany screamed, yelled, ran, kicked and beat off a bearded man carrying a gun. I left the back room just in time to see him holding her by the neck before she hauled off and slugged him hard enough to force him away from her.
I dashed over to her as she walked away from him. “Are you all right?” I asked scrutinizing her red neck.
She grinned, “I’m OK.” She ran around the back of the stage to await her next entrance as Helsa the German maid in South Arkansas Art Center’s fall play: “Musical Comedy Murders of 1940.”
The next morning, she looked fresh and rested at breakfast. She did not show a bit of weariness from a night expended waiting on people, doing gymnastics in the name of drama or near misses with lethal looking weapons.
I felt a tinge of jealousy. I could barely crawl out of bed that morning. When I sat up quickly, my back spasmed in protest at the abrupt movement. Every muscle in my body was sore and creaked after the unusual exercise. At practice the night before I had almost figured out how to faint gracefully, but the next morning I was so stiff, I made the Tin Woodman look graceful.
As I searched for the oil can to loosen up the joints at my elbows so I could brush my teeth, my body screamed “go back to bed. It’s too painful to move.”
I pulled the quilt and sheets up over my head. I was drifting off into the comfortable sleep of oblivion when my deep sense of responsibility yanked the covers back, walked me over the closet and began selecting clothes for a day of work.
I looked blearily at the loose fitting dress in my hands, sighed and stiffly worked it over my head. I drove to work wincing every time I had to move my foot between the accelerator and brake. Zombi like, I plodded through the day typing, copying, reading new releases ad writing.
In the two hours between work and play practice. I dragged myself home, checked the mail and had supper with the family.
On the drive to practice, I detailed every stiff muscle I had to our teenage exchange student who has a far more active part in the play. She was as concerned as any teen is about middle-aged aches and pains.
Only at practice did I finally get to rest — on the stage floor as I waited for my cue to wake up after fainting.
As soon as the last production is over, I’m going home to bed and I’m not getting up until I am good and ready … or responsibility jerks back the covers again.