Bloody Shirt

I heard some come in costume. You could tell it was a cult crowd. When the house lights dimmed and the first notes were struck, the audience erupted with bloodthirsty anticipation.  Sondheim fans can be that way. It was the sort of audience engagement not typically on display at the Lunt-Fontanne.

       Intermission found me weaving through the packed crowd in the lounge downstairs. His intense mien blended at first with the desperate theatergoers making their way to the restroom for relief after the long first act. As he drew closer, I discerned the silver blade tucked behind his ear like a librarian’s pencil. The long white barber’s apron smeared with ketchup suggesting blood would have been shocking anywhere else. As we passed, he rubbed against me, leaving his mark on the side of my shirt. An unnerving encounter underground with an imposter Demon Barber of West 46th.

       Following the curtain calls, I mix in with the hordes of theatergoers exiting nearby theaters as we flood the street and scatter in every direction. Waiting at a traffic light to cross Broadway, I spot a telltale mark on the pedestrian next to me. A condiment smear on the exact same side of the shirt of this man holding a Sweeney Todd Playbill identifies a fellow victim of the same serial stalker.