Page 87 of Not Home Alone

I’ve never been afraid of a teenager before, but she scares me.

Also, I have no idea if I remember the lines. I remember running lines with Merrily a decade ago, and I remember every single time I kissed her, but there’s a lot about the actual performance that I tried to forget.

So, instead of making myself appear more down to earth to the good people of Holly Grove, I’m going to look like a boned-up, old-timey pervert, and I will probably sound like an idiot. But I’m doing this for Merrily. Anything for Merrily.

I’ve been watching from the wings. The use of shadow puppetry is brilliant, and I wish I could see it from the audience. But alas—this. I have a minute to watch the shadow puppet Mouse King army and toy soldiers assembling behind the screen before I have to put the Nutcracker mask on and take the stage.

Merrily makes her exit, but she doesn’t see me over here. Joy said she didn’t tell Merrily she called me in case I didn’t show up. By the time I got here, she was already on stage. So I guess it’ll be a surprise.

The Mouse King, played by Miguel from the Tired of Being Alone tire shop, enters stage right, with his Mouse King headpiece on, wielding a prop sword that’s actually a plunger. “HEAR ME, inhabitants of this house!” he shouts. “I am the Mouse King! I have seven heads, although due to budget constraints tonight you can only see that I have one, but please imagine the other six. They are very scary. I went to school for being scary! My mother was also scary. Her name was Madame Mouserinks, and she could really fill a room, personality-wise. That’s not why I’m angry—it’s nobody’s business why I’m angry! You must only know that I am angry and very, very scary!”

I enter, stage left, mask on, and wielding my own sword. “Halt! Foul sovereign of the rodent nation!” I shout.

There are delighted gasps and whispers from the audience, but since I am not just well-endowed, I am also a dedicated stage performer, I ignore them and recite my lines.

“Thou shalt not pass!” I cry out, trying really hard not to sound like Gandalf, but it’s impossible not to. “Also—back off, daddy-o.”

“Did you just call me daddy-o?” Mouse King asks, bewildered.

“It is a popular expression that the audience will understand.”

“I am familiar with the expression, I just didn’t expect you to use it.”

“I contain multitudes.” I stand silent for a beat, not because I’ve forgotten my line, because the stage direction reads: The Nutcracker stands silent for a beat, contemplating, without looking as though he has forgotten his lines.

“What is happening right now?” Mouse King asks, warily.

“I’m strategizing.”

“Excellent. And what is thy strategy?”

“I am going to hit thee with this sword.”

Mouse King considers this and then says, “That is not a very complex strategy.”

“No. But it’s a very effective one.”

We circle each other. When my back is to the audience, I swear I can hear a woman say the words “firm peach.” I’m not going to think about that. When I’m in profile again, I hear another woman near the front say she’d “like to unwrap that package tomorrow morning.” Meanwhile, the mouse army puppets are dancing around behind the screen.

Then Mouse King and I commence a choreographed sword fight, which I didn’t rehearse with him. I’m doing the choreography from ten years ago, which I can somehow perform thanks to muscle memory. He’s doing choreography that’s slightly different, but so far so good. I have a bigger prop sword; he has a plunger that was spraypainted gold. But there is very little fabric protecting my junk, so if he so much as bends his knee the wrong way, I am not going to like it.

There’s a lot of banter between us, and the fight is not supposed to be going well for me. Mouse King lunges and sticks the plunger through my bent arm. I slowly lower to my knees and then lie on my back. Mouse King stands over me and has a tiny monologue about his mother, who knew me and told him I was stubborn, and how she once cursed a dog. It’s absurd and great.

I manage to get up, and we face off again.

There’s more banter, and then Mouse King has the pointy end of his plunger pointed at my neck, and he says, “And now, strange wooden man, thy story ends! Thou shalt not see another Christmas morn! Thou shalt not⁠—”

A slipper hits him in the back of the head.

I am so impressed by Merrily’s aim from the wings.

There’s a moment of silence.

Mouse King says, “Ah, well. That did it.” And then he drops his plunger and falls, very slowly, very dramatically, stumbling back and forth, reaching out toward the audience. Then he sighs and hits the floor.

There’s a long pause.

Then Mouse King gives a thumbs up to indicate that he’s okay.