Nobody Move

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JIMMY LUNTZ had never been to war, but this was the sensation, he was sure of that — eighteen guys in a room, Rob, the director, sending them out — eighteen guys shoulder to shoulder, moving out on the orders of their leader to do what they’ve been training day and night to do. Waiting silently in darkness behind the heavy curtain while on the other side of it the MC tells a stale joke, and then—“THE ALHAMBRA CALIFORNIA BEACHCOMBER CHORDSMEN!”—and they were smiling at hot lights, doing their two numbers.

Luntz was one of four leads. On “Firefly” he thought they did pretty well. Their vowels matched, they went easy on the consonants, and Luntz knew he, at least, was lit up and smiling, with plenty of body language. On “If We Can’t Be the Same Old Sweethearts” they caught the wave. Uniformity, resonance, expression of pathos, everything Rob had ever asked for. They’d never done it so well. Right face, down the steps, and into the convention center’s basement,

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