By skyforbes 
FRAMINGHAM, Mass. Like many states, Massachusetts is under severe budget pressure due to increasing Medicaid costs at a time when the federal government is cutting its support for the program. “The trend lines are unsustainable,” says Dr. Emil Nostrand of Mosi Tatupu Medical Center here. “Poor people keep getting sick, despite the feel-good posters we put up in hospital emergency rooms.”
That cost crunch has a ripple effect on other programs as well. Healthcare ranks higher in public opinion polls than support for the arts, so popular initiatives such as “Take a Mime to Lunch” and “Interpretive Dance to Fight Climate Change” have been eliminated. One subsidized drama program has survived through a combination of stealth, low cunning and confusion, however; the Metrowest Drama Queens, a small theatre company with a $10,000 grant from the Bay State Arts Council, successfully had their funding transferred to the Massachusetts State Police, where it survived as a public safety measure.
“The whole ‘Defund the Police’ thing where social workers were supposed to replace cops on the beat–that never appealed to us,” says Miriam Takash, a stocky 42-year-old who occasionally gets callbacks from casting directors looking for “butch” actresses. “I mean, somebody who’s a real trouper is better-equipped to calm down a knife-wielding schizophrenic than a psychologist who’s just going to tell him to get in touch with his feelings.”
Her partner, Emily Verblock, was once a baby sitter for State Representative Rob DiScalzo, who didn’t know that a trouper is different from a trooper. “Rob’s a great guy, don’t get me wrong,” she says with slightly guilty smile, “but he has to look ‘vocabulary’ up in the dictionary.” A “trooper” is a state police officer or a private soldier in a cavalry, armored, or airborne unit. A “trouper” is an actor or other entertainer, typically one with long experience. A trooper can become a trouper with little or no experience, but a trouper cannot become a trouper without rigorous training, passing grades on various physical and mental exams, and payments to state politicians, preferably in unmarked bills.
Wednesday morning finds the two grown-up “drama kids” cruising Route 9, the toll-free alternative to the Massachusetts Turnpike. “The guys with seniority get the Pike,” says Takash, “so we get the crumbs, which is alright with us if it keeps the grant money flowing.”
Traffic is heavy inbound, but light headed west as commuters are, for the most part, traveling to Boston for their jobs. “Look over there,” Verblock says, pointing across the highway at a traffic jam developing at a drive-through Starbucks outlet.
“Something’s wrong,” Takash says, taking her radio microphone out of its holster on the dashboard. “Mobile Unit 4, reversing direction at Oak Street, heading west,” she barks, and a disembodied voice replies “Copy that” as she exits and reverses direction with her siren on.
“Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick,” Verblock says as their car approaches the “Enter” curb-cut and scoots around a line of cars past the menu board to the service window, where 72-year-old Ethel Loving is having a meltdown because the store is out of the syrup needed to make her daily tall, no-foam vanilla latte.
“What am I supposed to do–go to Dunkin’ Donuts?” she screams before the two troupers wave her out of line to the parking lot.
“Ma’am, I can’t have you impeding the flow of traffic on a state highway, you understand?” Takash says.
“But I wasn’t on Route 9,” the woman replies.
“The line was about to spill out of the entrance,” Verblock says, taking out her violation pad. “If you don’t want a $200 fine, I’m going to have to ask you to get out of your car and sing your favorite show tune with us.”
“Show tune?”
“Correct. We’re Massachusetts State Troupers, and we can let you off with a warning if you participate in an impromptu performance of a show-stopping tune from a Broadway musical.”
The gravity of the situation sinks in with the emotionally-distraught woman, who inhales, then screws up her mouth in a thoughtful expression, then announces “Well, I guess I’d have to go with ‘Tomorrow’ from ‘Annie.’”
“Thank you for cooperating.” Takash says. “Step out of the car, lift your arms in the air, and sing along with us.”
After a few missteps the three women form an impromptu chorus line, drawing stares from employees, then launch into the uplifting lyrics that have warmed the hearts of theatre-goers around the world.
“The sun’ll come out tomorrow,
Bet your bottom dollar, that tomorrow there’ll be sun!”
The three wrap up a slightly-abbreviated version of the song, with the “perp” bawling out the closing chorus of “Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you, tomorrow — You’re always a day . . . away!”
“Whadda ya think?” Verblock says to her partner.
“She got the lyrics right,” Takash says as she checks the box marked “WARNING” on the ticket.
“Am I free to go?” Loving asks with a note concerned hope in her voice.”
“You missed the D above middle C,” Takash snaps. “Don’t let it happen again.”