A large woman stepped up onto the stage, the floor creaking with every step.
“Split her name, weight and her age and you would have three women,” Oliver whispered cynically.
Tara glared at him. Oliver rolled his eyes. Maybe if he could get Tara to start drinking, he’d be able to. His eyes flicked to his thermos of Rum and Coke longingly. Tara elbowed him.
“Ahem yes,” Oliver looked back to the stage. Was that a, “ow,” Tara had elbowed him again. “Please,” he glared at Tara briefly, “state your name and purpose of your armor.”
Creek, creek, when the stage as she shifted her weight. “My name,”
If Oliver had been drinking it would have shot out his nose. How a woman that large could have a childish voice was beyond him. Even Tara stopped her doodling to stare.
“Your name yes?” Oliver prompted as the woman had started staring into the balconies.
“Right,” She looked back at them. Creek went the floor again and again; her weight shifting. “My name is,” she took a deep breath, “Rosa-Maria Santiago Para Montego Rodriguez Michelle.”
Oliver and Tara exchanged looks. He wondered how long it had taken her to learn how to spell her name in school. Had she eaten enough for three people, was that why she was fat. His peripheral vision caught sight of Tara’s elbow cocking for another jab so Oliver quickly leaned over the mic.
“And the reason for your armor.” The woman was staring at the ceiling this time. Did she expect it to fall down on her?
“I will be singing Ride of the Valkyries by Richard Wagner from Act III of Die Walküre.”
“Right.” Oliver moved back from the mic. Looking at Tara he stated, “shouldn’t she be German for that?” He flinched as it appeared Tara was going to once again hit him. “Why do I put up with you?” he hissed.
“Because I’m the only one who hasn’t quit on you.” She grinned at him. “Now listen.”
Oliver sighed and turned his attention back to the stage. The three-in-one woman had pulled out a, “is that a?” he looked at the device she held in her hand.
“A walkman?” Tara asked, she too amazed by the sight.
Placing the head phones around her neck, the woman turned the volume way up and hit play. The music drifted to the twenty-fifth row, faint and tinny . When three-in-one woman’s voice finally belted out, both Tara and Oliver cringed.
“Tone deaf,” Tara muttered.
“Completely,” Oliver agreed. Leaning towards the mic he tried to get her attention. “Ahem, Thank you that will be all.” The woman kept singing apparently oblivious to everything but the ceiling. Oliver tried again. “Miss thank you very much.” No response. “GET OFF THE STAGE!”
Tara glared at him and pushed him aside. She took a deep breath. “Rosa-Maria Santiago Para Montego Rodriguez Michelle!”
The woman blinked and hit stop on the Walkman. “Yes?”
“Thank you, that will be all,” Tara told her. “You may get off the stage.”
“And I hope you don’t fall through,” Oliver muttered taking a swig from his thermos, which he’d managed to filch when Tara had pushed him out of the way.
“Give me that.” Tara swiped the thermos out of his hand.
They listened to the creeks of the floor as the woman left. “Fine,” Oliver grumbled, slumping in his seat arms crossed. “Who’s next?”