CONCERT MANIA

Machines whirring, a baseball game announcer echoes in the background from an old radio, exit stage left from the psychiatric ward towards the streets of Kansas City, as I make my way to el concierto de lavado. It’s after midnight and the full orchestra of the “Suds and duds” laundromat is underway for its climax. I take out my instruments, tune the machines, insert the last quarters I have on me and begin my solo piece. It’s not every day I get my own time to shine, with my jockstraps and cozy lifestyle in full display of the audience. But today, I was not shy - for the withdrawals of my medications had taken root in my mind and mania was my eternal friend. I was on top of the world, and no one could stop me.

With a well-timed plié and ciseaux I then bow to the audience, who now had their film devices at a ready, as the orchestra began its melody of Carnival of the Animals, Finale.

“For this glorious number, please keep flash photography to a minimum, as we begin our production of the one man show, in no particular order, of Fantasia 2000” boomed the announcer on the radio.

Twirling and flowing with the music, each prop-garment was tossed elegantly into the well-tuned machines as they began their backup choreography and jingles. Bumped, slushed, and rattled, the washing and drying machines alike moved through the room with precision as the internal music raged on, ending only when I slide fifteen feet knee first through the laundromat in slimy-watery-soapy floors and pointed my chest towards the heavens, heaving every breath of exhilaration. Faintly hearing the paddy wagon sirens amongst the thunderous applause.

“Kid, I think it’s about time we wrap this show up and take it on the road,” the announcer stated.

“Oh ol’ sport, you are just being paranoid, now watch me work this crowd - play Rhapsody in blue…B-flat major if you would” I retorted.

Looking back at the stage, the audience members seemed on edge. They still are recording my performance, so I have a chance! I could make it to Broadway! With utter grace and sophistication, I step-ball-changed across the stage, broom in hand, ensuring I picked up after myself, ready for my final act. Annoyingly though the sirens grew louder.

“Kid, get out of there, we’ve been ratted out! Exit stage right!” Screamed the announcer.

I had no care, for the music was too loud in my mind anyways to hear or worry over the trivial matters in that reality, for this was my big chance to make my mark on the world. I swirled around in the jazz square, mopping and sweeping and folding my mess in a crazed but elegant form in rumbustious manner. And as I was beginning the finale with a pas de bourrée, they came. The radio announcer was gone, no help from the outside now. I was on my own for this next bit. Yet the music still played, as if the forces of the universe wanted me to have this final act. “A night on Bald Mountain” began.

As I spread my demon-like wings, I flailed and flung around them – gnawing, clawing, and tearing through the men in blue and white; menacingly, as if the song had awoken the beast within me - I was no longer my human. I was the beast on Bald Mountain. As I began my final approach the music crescendos for the killing strike! Lights turn bright red the music reaching its climax! The lights fade out and curtains drop. All black. All that fill my head was static growing louder from the radio. When I opened my eyes, I was in the west wing of the psychiatric ward laundry area.

Curtain call.

Kristoff Mejia (He/They) is a 31-year-old non-binary student at Full Sail University, studying the arts of creative writing and later will fine tune their mastery in mixed media art/digital art. Growing up in the Kansas City area as a Hispanic “no-sabo” kid, Kristoff often spent their time playing pretend, creating fantasy worlds with their imagination. They also grew up in a traditional household, raised by two loving grandparents. Though they have been through many trials in their life, Kristoff tries to live every day to the fullest. They hope to give others the joy they often missed in their life, lending representation in their writing to other minorities with mental illnesses.