About Toy Box: Oil
by Kiernan Kelly, Zoe Nichols, BA Tortuga
36 pages
/ 14000 words
ISBN-13: 978-1-60370-608-7
ISBN-10: 1-60370-608-9
Available file types - html, lit, pdf, prc
Slick oil. Hot skin. What more could anyone ask for? In Hoofers, by Kiernan Kelly, Dan Allen of Dancing Dan and his Magical Feet has just joined a new Vaudeville troupe. He's hoping for a good spot in the line-up, but he doesn't hold out much hope for it when he discovers that the famous Foster Elliot not only is working the same troupe as he is, but is in the deuce spot. What brought about Foster's drop from fame and could he and Dan have more in common than they realize? And what exactly is that little vial of oil Foster keeps with his make-up for anyway?
In Heated, by Zoe Nichols, Nate likes a little pain with his pleasure and while his lover Sam doesn't enjoy that himself, he's more than happy to indulge Nate. When Sam brings home oil with some very interesting properties, Nate turns the tables on him with interesting results. And in Best Thing, by BA Tortuga, bullrider Sam is having a tough night, but not so tough that he doesn't want some consolation from his lover Beau. Can a bottle of baby oil make everything seem better?
Sample
Hoofers
Kiernan Kelly
Backstage at the Baker Theater on the first day of rehearsal for a new show was much like any other on the circuit -- loud, and chaotic. People rushed around, some only half-dressed, others wearing heavy makeup, a few hauling boxes and trunks behind them.
Dogs, goats, monkeys, and the odd donkey tramped the boards, while comics in oversized shoes and patched coats, children herded by their frantic stage mothers, ropers, jugglers, dancers, and musicians lugging tubas and cellos milled about.
Everyone was trying to get to their dressing rooms, get their music to the orchestra, or their lighting cues to the stage manager all at once. Every so often, a stray, strident note from someone's horn would blast, setting the dogs to barking, monkeys to screeching, children to wailing, and the donkey to braying. Over it all, you could hear the theater manager bellowing for one act or another to get their asses onstage for rehearsal.
I carried only a small valise containing my makeup case, my sheet music, and my good tap shoes. I was what they called a "bundle actor." I came with very little baggage, and was already wearing my costume -- a white seersucker suit, blue shirt, white tie, and my straw boater. Costumes weren't very important to my act, and props, completely unnecessary -- folks would be too busy watching my feet to care much what I was wearing, or the backdrop behind me. My suit was older, and a little frayed at the cuffs, but it still fit me well. I'd have to scrape together enough money to purchase a new one eventually, but for now, it would do.
My act's name was Dancing Dan and his Magical Feet. It was a good act, as fine as any you'd find playing the small-time vaudeville houses on the Butterfield circuit. I started the act with a little soft-shoe for Me and My Shadow, then I'd dart into the wings, change into my good tap shoes, and be back out before the applause died down, launching into a buck-and-wing to Down Home Rag. I never really brought the house down, but I never got booed or socked with rotten tomatoes, either -- except for one time in Peoria during a matinee, but then again, the audience there pelted vegetables at every act, so I didn't take it personally.
"Pardon me," I said to the stage manager as soon as I could get his attention away from a peroxide blonde with a too-small costume and too-big boobs, who was complaining about the Pomeranian in the dog act chewing on her ballet shoes. "I'm Dan Allen, of Dancing Dan and his Magical Feet. Where's my dressing room?"
The stage manager jerked his thumb at a sheet of paper tacked to the wall behind him, and immediately turned his attention to a pair of comics who were screaming obscenities at one another. One socked the other with a rubber chicken; the other sent a spray of seltzer water streaming into his opponent's face.
I sighed, and then skirted the peroxide blonde -- who was still wailing over her masticated slippers -- and walked over to find my name on the list. Dressing Room Four, second level, stage left. Good enough, I thought, heading for the stairs. They were wooden, narrow and steep. While the second level of the backstage area wasn't nearly as large as the first, it was just as crowded, but I managed to find my dressing room.
It was tiny, as most were, barely more than a broom closet, and smelled heavily of whiskey, piss, and greasepaint. There was a small dressing table and chair, a sheet strung across the back wall for privacy while changing costumes, and a single, bare light bulb swinging from a chain in the center of the ceiling. I plunked my valise down on the table, closed the door and sat down, popping open my case and pulling out my makeup kit and shoes.
The door creaked open, and I turned to find a man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a fine, white linen suit, and a gray, silk cravat. His hair was dark blond, slicked back from his forehead, and his eyes were a startling shade of blue. If it wasn't for the disgust curling his lip, he would've been quite handsome.
His eyes lit on me, their piercing blue color all the more apparent as he stared holes into my hide. "Who are you?"
His disdain barely scored on my thick skin. In my years in vaudeville, I'd met every type of performer, from the wide-eyed innocents to the incredibly arrogant. My first impression of him put him smack in the latter category. "Dan Allen of Dancing Dan and his Magical Feet. Who're you?" I turned back to sorting through my makeup without waiting for him to answer, setting the tiny pots and brushes neatly on the scarred tabletop.
He didn't answer my question. "I believe this is my dressing room."
"Yeah? Mine, too. Guess we're roomies. Come in and take a load off."
He sputtered, but regained his composure quickly. "There must be some mistake," he said in an icy voice.
"I doubt it." I turned in my chair, looking him up and down. Maybe he was a greenhorn. I decided to give him the wisdom of my experience. "Listen, mister, haven't you booked on this circuit before? It's the same in every house I've played. There are never enough dressing rooms. Even the headliners share. Be a trouper and make the best of it."
He stood standing in the doorway until I wondered whether he'd accidentally glued his feet to the floor, but eventually heaved a sigh worthy of Bernhardt, and walked inside, dragging his trunk in behind him.
Neither of us were small men. Between the two of us, the room suddenly seemed even tinier. He stood still, looking around the room as if he could expand its boundaries by sheer will.
I decided to make another effort in small talk. "What's your name?"