*
George Alistair muttered to himself in the dressing room as he read the written notes from the director. He shook his head several times and turned to the actor who played Scrooge's nephew. The young man, a regular at that other theater, was applying make-up.
"How do you work with this man all the time?" George asked. "One of the most pompous, micro-managing directors I've ever had to deal with." He shook the page of notes at the boy. "Is he like that with everyone?"
"I kind of like it," said the boy, adjusting his ascot. "Keeps me sharp, ready for anything. I do better if I'm told only what I'm doing wrong. Forces me to improve."
George made to say something, but instead dropped the sheet on the counter and exited the dressing room. "Fool," he said under his breath as he made his way down the short dressing room hallway. He passed through a small swinging door and out into the green room.
The stage manager, another import, handed him another piece of paper as he walked by without a word. George looked down at it. More notes. He'd only just been handed the first page 20 minutes ago.
"Absurd," George said, as he made his way through the green room and out through The Funnel to the house to have a word with Mr. Porter.
The director, or as George called him "The Usurper" was sitting on the front row of seats in the house talking with his lighting designer. For anyone else George would have waited until the conversation was over, or at least at a pause. But enough was enough. "You want my scowl to be more organic? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Porter looked up from his discussion with the light designer. "I'm in the middle of something right now, George. We'll talk about it later."
"I was in the middle of something when I got this," George told him, irritation building but manageable. "Actually I was in the middle of something both times in the last half an hour when I got your notes. They're so important? I need to know right now what the hell they mean."
"I'll just go check on those gels," said the lighting designer, who then made his way up the aisle toward the entrance to the lighting booth.
"I can't have these kind of interruptions, George. Just because you're the lead in the show…"
"Don't insult me with that sermon," George said. "I had my first lead before you had your first tooth, probably. I know how it works, and let me tell you it doesn't work well with all of this micromanaging." George shook the paper with Porter's latest notes on it.
Porter took a deep breath, and folded his hands. He leaned back in his seat. George felt as though he was being treated like a rebellious child.
"Organic means natural," Porter said. "Not artificial. Nothing added or subtracted."
"I can define it," George said. His face felt hot now. "Twenty-five years as a high school English teacher allowed me to pick up a thing or two about words here and there."
Porter blinked, but continued. "My point was, the way you scowl has a certain painted-on quality. I'd like to see it come out of Scrooge's soul. Something natural. I want it to be inevitable that Scrooge would look exactly like that. Right now you look like an actor that painted a scowl on his face.”
George thought Porter should see what an actor delivering a right hook to the jaw looked like. But he refrained as he listened to the Usurper claw his way through an explanation of how he envisioned the character. Just as he had done every single day since he took over.
None of it applied to what George was doing at all, of course, and none of it ever would. His best bet was to simply ignore all of it, and perform the role as he always had. He should have ignored the notes he was given, in fact. But this man had tried his patience.
George took pride in the fact that at least nobody else in the production had any sense that he was angry. At least he was still hiding it well.
Thank You for Ten: Short Fiction About a Little Theater Page 7
