The usher hands me a Playbill and points at my seat—back row and middle. Ten people stand up to let me by, though a couple of them move slow and act like I ruined their day. I’m deep in the middle of this row. Let’s hope I don’t have a bathroom emergency. This theater must have two hundred seats, all filled. It feels more like a theater than a church, but there are stained-glass windows and religious etchings on the ceiling. The stage is not impressive—about as big as the one at my old school.
The man next to me flips through his Playbill. His cologne smells expensive. He has a salt-and-pepper beard, slicked-back hair, and thick-rimmed glasses. He looks at me and smiles. “Best seat in the house,” he says.
“I have to disagree,” I say, not happy to be so far back.
He shakes his head. “What do you mean? We have the best view of the set, the actors, and the audience. The audience is very telling. And look,” he says, directing my attention to the armrest. “We each have our own. Every other row has to share.”
I guess the back row has its perks. Armrests. Full views. Talkative strangers. “It’s not so bad,” I confirm.
My seat neighbor smiles. “That’s the attitude!” He’s got a cool-dad vibe. “Mind if I get nosy?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, hoping this doesn’t get weird.
“I’m curious why a young guy like yourself would be here on a Sunday afternoon?”
That confirms it; he’s one hundred percent going to kidnap me. My palms start to sweat. “Um,” I finally say, wondering if I can change my seat.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’ll explain myself. I’m a producer, and if you can keep a secret, I’m thinking about investing in this show. Maybe taking it to Broadway.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I’m always curious about the audience. How did you hear about this show?”
I’m sitting by a producer who can nonchalantly take things to Broadway. I’ve watched The Producers and know that producers are the ones with the money and the power, but I’ve never met one. And now I’m sitting by one. “My aunt gave me the ticket. And I’m studying acting,” I say, hoping he will cast me immediately.
His eyebrows rise. “Where?”
“School of Performing Arts,” I answer with pride. This gets another eyebrow raise. “I’m a junior at SPA,” I repeat, mostly because I want to say it again.
“Good for you,” he says. “Lot of talented actors came from that school.”
“It can be intimidating,” I admit.
He smiles. “It should be inspiring.”
The lights go down, and the audience quiets. As the actors take their places, I replay our conversation in my head, wondering if I could’ve been more charming or funny, and if he’ll give me a job someday.
The lights go up, and we’re in a women’s shelter in New York. The characters have rough lives and dirty mouths. The group is planning a talent show, which leads to several fights, mostly with the main character, Fresco—a retired army vet suffering from PTSD. Fresco is fiery and quick to take someone down verbally. And maybe physically. I think about how I would play that part. I don’t think I could scream that much.
As the scene plays out, my eyes wander to the woman in the corner of the stage. She sits with her head down like she’s in pain. Fresco goes on a tear and heads over to her, pointing her finger, yelling, “Why would they let transgender people in our women’s shelter? This is a women’s shelter, and this isn’t a woman.”
I grip the armrest like I’m on a roller coaster that’s plunging to the ground. My body is hot and tight, and my brain has tons of thoughts at once. Fresco continues yelling slurs and hate speech that are not only offensive—they feel like a hate crime. She continues belittling the trans woman, named Wanda, and I want to cover my ears and look away. Every mean thing feels like it’s being said to me. I feel as hurt as Wanda. And I know it’s not real, but it feels real, and I want to get off this roller coaster.
Fresco pulls back to slap her, but Wanda grabs her hand. “You should die,” Fresco screams, then spits in Wanda’s face. “You don’t belong in this world.”
I’ve heard the word triggered, but I’ve never felt it before. I’m triggered, and there’s nothing I can do but sit here, hearing and feeling every word. My body is on fire. There’s sweat on my forehead. I want to get the hell out of here, but I’m trapped in the middle seat.
When Wanda walks off the stage, my muscles relax. My fingers unclench on the armrest (I’m now very thankful to have my own). I scan the audience and see no one alarmed or upset. The producer looks unbothered. Why are they so calm? How could that be okay? I’m already worried about the next time Wanda enters the stage.
I have trouble concentrating on the show. I’m thinking about why the playwright used all those terrible words. What was the point? The play takes place a while ago, maybe in the 90s, when talking like that about transgender people was tolerated. But it’s not anymore. There was no reason for what happened onstage. Wanda gets a few more scenes, and I swear I grip the armrest so tight I’m leaving dents.
When the lights come up for intermission, I step over my seat and get to the lobby first. My shirt is wet from sweat, and my binder feels soaked. I step outside to get some air. I should leave, but I would feel bad for the actors. When I’m onstage, empty seats after intermission make me feel awful. And the play is pretty good minus the Wanda verbal torture scenes.
Once outside, I google the playwright. He’s an older man with a gray beard and thinning hair. Happiness Is for Other People is his sixth play, and most of them debuted at this theater. Several websites say he’s gay. I think about why he chose to write Wanda this way and what he wanted to accomplish. He probably wanted to feature a trans character, and show how difficult life was in shelters, and call out the injustice. Or maybe he didn’t think about it all.
I head back inside and hop over my seat from behind—successfully avoiding having to ask the entire row of people to stand up again. The producer is drinking wine from his sippy cup. “What do you think?” I ask, curious about his take.
“I’m intrigued. But I would cut thirty minutes out of that act.”
I can’t help but be in awe of this man. “You have the best job in theater,” I say.
He laughs so loud the two ladies in front of us turn around and give a look. “What makes you think that?”
I wave my hand over the sea of people here on a Sunday afternoon. “All these people paid to be here. That’s a lot of money.”
This gets another loud laugh from the producer. “Let’s do some math.”
“Fun,” I say.
“Stick with me. Assume each ticket costs a hundred dollars. And each row has about twenty seats. The first row would pay the actors, the next row the crew, the next four-ish rows would go to theater rent, two rows for the upfront money to get the show on its feet, one more row for equity dues, taxes, fees, and that leaves us”—he counts the rows with his fingers—“with two rows for producers.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I admit.
“Shoot, sorry, one row for marketing and management. One row for producers. But what happens if the show isn’t sold out? We still pay everyone. Sure, there’s money to be made. The producers of Hamilton aren’t worried about too much anymore. But producing is not for the weak of heart, and very few shows make money.”
“Then why do it?” I ask.
“Because I’m desperately and helplessly in love with theater.”
“I feel it, too,” I say.
“You better, because acting is also not for the weak. But you’re special, I can tell.”
“Thanks,” I say, hoping that means he will ask me to star in his next show.
“Now, my new friend, should I produce this show?”
I’m not ready to give my verdict. “Can I tell you at the end?”
He smiles. “Sure, kid, you know where to find me.”
The lights dim down. Here we go. I ready my hands on the armre
st and let the roller coaster take me away. The second act introduces Wanda’s love interest—a janitor at the shelter named Ralphie. He’s a cis guy with big muscles and tattoos—a man’s man. He’s wrestling with his love for a trans woman and confides his feelings to a friend on a park bench. He can’t believe he loves “a chick with a dick.” Armrest grab. He doesn’t want to be gay. He doesn’t want people to know. There are jokes in the dialogue, and the playwright is clever enough to not direct them toward Wanda, or trans people, but it gets close. Then the characters decide that Ralphie should follow his heart even if it’s for a “chick with a dick.” A moment of friendship at the expense of the trans person. I shake my head in defeat.
Wanda isn’t in much of the second act. I mistakenly let my guard down until Fresco’s girlfriend, Nikki, goes missing, and she blames Wanda. When they find out Nikki is dead, Fresco goes after Wanda. They circle each other as Fresco yells transphobic insult after insult. “All trans people will go to hell and burn,” Fresco shouts.
I want to fight back. Punch something. Stand up and say SHUT UP. I want to defend Wanda and every trans person who’s had to hear these words. Fresco takes out a knife and stabs Wanda. The lights go dark, and everything is quiet. Defeat fills me up. Why did it need to go this way?
Wanda doesn’t die from the stabbing and gets transferred to an LGBT shelter in Queens. I think the writer wanted to give her a happy ending. The lights come up, and everyone is on their feet for a standing ovation, with the largest applause going to the actor playing Wanda.
We start the slow shuffle toward the exit. My body is weak from the roller coaster. My jaw is sore from clenching it the whole show. The producer checks his phone. He looks up at me. “So, should I buy this thing?”
I think about my answer. I know it doesn’t really matter—he’s not going to make his decision off mine—but I want to give him my honest opinion. And I don’t want anyone else to feel like that ever again. “No,” I say. My eyes get wet, but I wipe it away quick. “I’m trans, and sitting though that was like being stabbed one hundred times with words. So my answer is no.”
6:40 P.M.
I look out the window in my bedroom. It’s great to see the street, but not so great to hear it. Day and night, there are car honks, trash trucks, and people disagreeing loudly. Late one night, I even heard a couple agreeing very loudly. The only sounds from my window in Pennsylvania were dogs barking and trains passing. On wild nights, a raccoon would knock over the trash cans.
My bedroom is tiny—I think it’s meant to be an office. Aunt Lil turned the master bedroom on the second floor into an art studio, her bedroom is on the ground floor, and my room has enough space for a twin bed, a small desk, and a dresser. My aunt used to rent this room to artists, until someone left jars of pee under the bed. I jokingly promised her I would always empty my pee jars.
I stare at the pineapple lamp on my desk, trying to summon energy to do homework. I feel drained from the week, and that show—it should be called Happiness Is for Other People but Not Trans People. I think about writing a letter to the playwright about my experience but decide to waste time on my phone instead. Don’t want to brag, but I now have fifty followers on Instagram. Awfully close to internet famous.
Anna texted a few times this weekend. Her friend wrote a play (of course she has a playwright friend), and she wanted me to be her date. I declined the invitation and told her I was hanging with my aunt. I needed time to think. I don’t understand why she didn’t tell me her dad was Mr. Daniels. Why is it a big deal? There must be more to the story. I want to talk to her about it, but I’m unsure how to bring it up.
I open Aunt Lil’s old laptop. I have one assignment left—the paper about my super-objective for Mr. Daniels. Won’t everybody say they want to be a famous actor? And how will he grade this paper? I want to act, not write papers about acting.
Aunt Lil knocks, then enters. “Hey, August, that better not be homework.”
“No way,” I say, happy to shut the computer.
Aunt Lil starts making my bed, which is pointless ’cause I’m going to sleep soon. I’ve noticed she gets fidgety when she needs to say something. “I spoke to your mom today. She says you haven’t called?”
“Oh, I guess I got busy,” I say.
“She misses you,” Aunt Lil whispers.
“And I miss her, too.” I miss her in the mornings while getting ready for school, when I need help, and when Aunt Lil cooks all vegetables. I miss her hugs.
“She asked if we could face chat her tonight. Can we do that now?”
“It’s FaceTime,” I say as panic washes over me. Mom can’t see my face. Well, the face is unchanged, but she can’t see my hair and my clothes. “She will be pissed if she sees my new look.”
“No problemo,” Aunt Lil announces, then heads to the closet and pulls down an Ikea blue bag from the shelf. She digs around and comes up with a bright pink ball cap in one hand and a pineapple beanie cap in the other. “What’s your flavor?”
“Neither,” I say.
“Good choice,” she sings, and puts the pink cap on my head. Mom has seen me in ball caps; she doesn’t love it—too masculine—but she’s seen it. I catch a glance of myself in the mirror and detest what I see.
“I’m allergic to pink,” I say, pulling the pineapple beanie on my head instead. That’s how much I dislike pink.
Mom picks up on the first ring and I see her face, a little too close to the camera, against the backdrop of the brown leather chair in our living room. There’s no doubt that Randy is next to her in the La-Z-Boy. Above them hangs a deer head from Randy’s hunting trips. I never liked that deer head—I swear its eyes would follow me at night. “Hi, Mom,” I say.
“Hi, honey. That’s an interesting hat.”
“Aunt Lil is teaching me the way of the pineapple.”
Aunt Lil puts a hand on my shoulder and lowers her face into the camera. “Just trying to teach the finer things of life to him.”
I watch Mom’s face tighten. Aunt Lil’s grip on my shoulder goes from loving to deep tissue massage. She knows what she said. “To her, of course.”
“Mom,” I say, “did you get a haircut?”
“Oh, yes, thanks for noticing. Randy didn’t,” she says.
“You look great. And how is Trish?” I ask. Aunt Lil gives me a look and mouths, “Trish?” I shrug. She’s been Mom’s hairdresser my whole life.
“Always up to trouble,” she says with a laugh. Trish is single and ready to mingle. Mom always loves her bad dating stories. “But enough about Trish; how’s your school?”
“It’s a great school, Mom. The classes are tough—I do homework on the weekends now,” I brag.
“Now that’s impressive,” Mom says. Aunt Lil gets up and straightens things in the room, listening but staying out of the way.
“And,” I continue, “the acting classes are going to change my life. If I can keep up.”
“When you want something, you don’t give up.”
“Are you talking about the Easter Concert?” I ask, evoking one of our inside jokes.
The phone shakes as she laughs. “You didn’t leave Pastor Tim alone until he let you sing the solo.”
I went a little overboard in convincing him. If I had to go to church, and I had to participate in the Easter Concert, then I was going to get the solo. “I knew I was the best one for the job.”
“And you were amazing,” she confirms. “I get teary thinking about it.”
Mom loved anytime I was acting or singing, but especially loved when I was acting or singing about Jesus. “And He walks with me,” I sing now. “And He talks with me, and He tells me I am His own.” I repeat the lines as she hums along. For this scene, I am my mother’s daughter. I will do anything to stay in New York and go to SPA. Aunt Lil dances and almost cracks me up, but I stay focused. When we sing the last note, Mom and I smile at each other.
“Miss you, baby girl,” she says sweetly.
My body cringe
s at baby girl, but my face remains composed. “Miss you, too, Mom.”
“Aunt Lil treating you okay?” she asks.
“She’s making me eat the grossest things,” I admit.
Aunt Lil leans against me, getting her face in the camera. “They’re called vegetables. Did you not have them in Pennsylvania?”
“I tried my best,” Mom says. “Say hi to Randy.” As Mom passes the phone to him, my aunt gets out of the camera’s range. Aunt Lil and Randy never got along.
A mustache takes up half the screen. “Hey, kiddo,” he says.
“Hi, Randy,” I say. And now I’m out of things to say to him.
“You behaving yourself? There’s some weirdos in New York.”
“I live with one,” I try to joke.
“Don’t I know it,” Randy says. Aunt Lil rolls her eyes.
I can hear Fox News in the background. Randy and I never had much to discuss. I wish Mom hadn’t passed him the phone. I’m struggling for the next thing to say. “How’s work?”
“Same ol’ every day. Liberals trying to mess up our taxes, but we stopped them.”
“Thank god,” I say sarcastically.
“Darn right,” he agrees. “All right, kiddo, stay out of trouble. Your mom is worried about you. Bye.” He hands the phone back before I can say bye.
“Mom, you don’t have to worry; I’m here making our dreams come true.”
“I know, but I’m still your mom. I love you so much, sweetie.”
“I love you and miss you,” I say, then hang up the phone. Even though my parents don’t accept me and possibly want to send me to conversion therapy, I can’t help but love my mom and want her to love me and not her version of me.
Aunt Lil sits back down on the bed. “Damn liberals and their damn taxes,” she says, mocking Randy. She does a dramatic facepalm. “I forgot to ask about the show! How was it?”
“Happiness is not seeing that show,” I say.
“Ouch.”
I softly kick the desk leg, trying to put into words what’s in my head. “There was a transgender character. She was a prostitute, addicted to drugs, and stabbed.”
Act Cool Page 6
